


Binary Helix

by flyingwyvern



Category: Death Note
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingwyvern/pseuds/flyingwyvern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chasing Mello is like chasing a dragon: only an idiot would do it. But it's a game, shared between them, and once you've played long enough, you can't let go. A serious multichaptered fic exploring Matt and Mello. Major spoilers. Complete, after all these years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the time lapse.

Sometimes Matt wonders what the hell he's doing, following Mello around. Following Mello is like chasing a dragon—all well and good, until you finally catch up with it. And so every cliché fantasy novel ever penned makes the journey the whole point of the book, instead of the ending. Some literary bookbrain decided to call it suspense. Matt calls it the will to live; only an idiotic knight would rush in to his death without meandering about a bit beforehand. Drawing it out is the only means a pawn has of prolonging its life, when its controller is determined to bring it to its doom.

Not that it matters, of course. Matt follows. Mello leaves enough clues behind, enough footprints, enough eddies and swirls in the currents of life, and Matt can keep track of him. Despite that, though, blonde terror always manages to elude him: a falsified train ticket here, a fake identity there, and they never collide. Whether it's Mello's caution or Matt's unwillingness to bring the chase to an end, they never quite meet up, but Matt's there nevertheless. Two point five steps behind. Following.

It wasn't always like this, he thinks dimly. There had been a time— _once upon a time,_ his mind laughs cynically, and he needs to stop reading crap fantasy parodies—there had been a time when Matt honestly hadn't cared. Truly, really hadn't cared. He's heard himself called a dog before, like a lonesome, lovesick puppy limping after an abusive owner: Mello's dog. He's heard the names. But they've never been applicable, and he doesn't mind, because when it comes down to it, his loyalty to Mello has always been worthless. Matt had always liked the value of his own skin over anything else; life was simple as that.

Even now, that hasn't changed much. Matt takes another puff of his cigarette and watches as the smoke curls up into the ventilation system. The Vegas casinos are all about the tech of the day, and the hungry vents and thirsty fans gulp down the cloying scent of smoke like reverse dragon-breath. He nudges a pile of chips forward with his spare hand, grinning languidly at the dealer. "I'm feeling lucky," he says, his mouth contorting and twisting with the awkward syllables. He's affecting an American accent today. The dealer smiles faintly and nods, and Matt watches as the cards turn over.

He's lost track of how long it's been since he learned how to count cards. It was him and Mello, he remembers, the two of them, learning side by side, and Mello was never quite as good at it. Except maybe he was, and Matt recalls the battered memories with a wry grin; maybe he was. It wouldn't be unusual. Mello could be good at anything, if he felt like it; he just hadn't cared enough about Matt's silly little games. Matt didn't mind—after all, the last thing Mello needed was another obsession. When Mello decided that something was worth his interest, he was consumed with it. He didn't know  _how_  to do things halfway. Beating Near. That had been one of his things.

The dealer's angry, though he's  _quite_  cordial about it. Matt gets an ace and a queen, and inwardly, he's laughing, because blackjack is so very elementary. "Ha!" he crows aloud, clapping his hands, playing the idiot. "Nice one." He watches as the chips amass before him, hand after hand, and the goofy grin comes without prodding. Matt's careful, though; he's rationing himself with the alcohol, and the goggles keep him halfway removed from the dizzying mayhem of the casino. The fortunate drunk, that's him, but he has his senses still. "Again, eh?"

Chasing Mello is just a hobby, after all, the same as his gambling, and it's fine to take a break every now and then. He could sit here all night, just another falsified persona raking in the good fortune, except then he'd be kicked out and that wouldn't be good. After tonight's run is over and done with, he's going back to his little apartment, and he's going to track that blasted blonde some more, just for fun, right? It's not like he's got aught better to do. But for now—it's not urgent, and Matt takes yet another drag on his cigarette. The only fun to be had from blackjack comes from beating the system, but he's getting rather good at that.

Matt relinquishes his cigarette for just a moment, so he can toss back another drink, and the strong, potent warmth coils around his stomach like a slumbering serpent. There had been a time when Mello was just another nothing, just another kid, a best friend when that title didn't really mean much. It's a pity, really, but here's the sad truth: Mello ran away. Mello ran away, and Matt doesn't have any choice but to follow, because to leave him be is an insult to Matt's perseverance. And Matt—

Matt doesn't lose. Not at his games, and certainly not at Mello's.

Distractions can only last so long.

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Matt drives back to his apartment, which requires quite a bit of maneuvering, given the hectic nature of the Vegas streets. He manages the steering wheel with nothing more than the toes of his left foot and half an eye, swimming through the dizzying rush of lights while his feet do all the work. Driving like this—it keeps his dexterity intact. You've got to enjoy the small pleasures life tosses to you, right?

His apartment is on the edge of the city, in that tiny nether-zone where the jumble of buildings jams right against the void of the desert. It's a disconcerting change, to go from the cacophony of neon to the hollow spread of scattered scrubs. This far from the strip, the only visitors are the locals. Matt likes that.

He lets himself in with the old brass key, then turns and punches in his access code on the keypad by the door. His system chirps, and Matt pats the interface briskly before dumping his bag on the sofa. One of his first projects every time he moves is to set up security, and this time's no exception. After entering the door, an intruder has five minutes to punch in the code—a long time, perhaps, except that after five minutes, the whole building goes up in smoke.

Matt likes fire, too.

There's an email waiting for him, and he quirks an eyebrow at the sender:  _nr-at-wh-dot-com_   _._  He wonders what the "r" stands for; after all, his own identity on the network is mj. Sharing the same initials with a pasty-faced pedophilic freak isn't what Matt would call  _fortunate_ , but it can't be helped.

He opens the email. It's nothing unusual, coming from Near—short, concise, and more than a little curt. It can't be helped, of course. He probably doesn't realize how irritating he sounds.

Not that Matt's making excuses for him. He fumbles for a cigarette and flicks his lighter open, watching as the end catches with an orange flare. The email—Near presumes that he has the ability to  _scold_  Matt. And for what? Matt's his own person. Always has been, and always will be. It's not his fault if Mello's making…difficulties.

It's not as if he's caught up with Mello yet, anyway, though that might possibly be his fault. He hasn't really been trying. He's certainly not going to rush into it just because Near's asking, though, so why did the stupid kid bother? Near. Near probably still plays with his toys, even now. Matt remembers that.

The nicotine soothes his nerves. Near's probably just a little…stressed. All this Kira nonsense—it'd get to anybody's head, probably. Even Near.

Matt doesn't send a reply.

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Once upon a time—

_Matt's lungs are clogged with cigarette smoke, as usual. It clings to his throat, scrabbling inside like a caged beast howling to get out. The nicotine doesn't belong to his body, and it knows it. He forces it down anyway. Smoking beats ennui, any day._

_Matt's bored. He won't say as much to anyone—particularly Mello, because Mello has plenty of none-too-pleasant ways of relieving his boredom. But he's bored._

" _Aren't you a bit young to be committing suicide?" Mello asks casually from across the room. His hair is strewn across his face, casting a lazy shadow over his vision. "Honestly, Matt."_

" _Not suicide," Matt returns. He tosses a cockeyed grin at his comrade. "I'm going to die of life long before lung cancer catches up to me."_

" _That's morbid."_

" _It's true. Come on, Mello. L's already grooming you and Near as his potential heirs, and he's only in his twenties, or thereabouts, right? You think that any of us are going to live to be a hundred and ten? We're not capable of being that ordinary."_

" _You mean_ you're _incapable of rationality," Mello points out. "You're worse than me."_

_Matt shrugs and sags back against the bookshelf, tipping his head towards the ceiling. He's bored. "Maybe I don't care."_

_Mello snorts and returns to his books. Matt watches. The pile of texts is high enough that he can only catch half a glimpse of Mello's head, bent over endless streams of words. His fingers glide over the text, carefully imprinting every sentence into his memory, carving the words into neural pathways for future recall. Matt shakes his head and swallows another breath of smoke. Mello has always been one for studying._

Matt wakes up, and the irony slams into him like Bowser into Toad.

Out of the three of them, Matt's in the  _least_  danger right now.

He laughs at himself a bit, shakes off the deliriousness that accompanies lack of sleep, and slams into his pillow.

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The next day, he catches up.

Matt cradles the phone against his ear and stretches out on the couch, cat-style, feeling the coarse fabric scraping against his exposed hip as the striped shirt rides up. The ceiling is orange, just like his world, seen through convex lenses. "Is that right?" he mumbles into the phone, fingers uncurled above his head as he stares into nothingness. "I'm not sure I believe you."

The voice on the other hand is nervous, and Paul reminds Matt yet again of his rabbit-like tendencies. He startles easily, but Matt can trust in his stupidity, and he's absolutely terrified of Matt right now. The terror is one of the few things Paul tends to get right—Matt's holding the strings to his freedom, and they both know it. Half-assed hackers make for wonderful prey, particularly when Matt can hold their misdeeds over their heads. "It's weird, but it's true," he assures Matt in that breathless, high-toned pant. "I mean, it's not like Travis takes on a pet all that often, but he's done it before. You know the kid?"

"Nah," Matt says, and he needs a new cover for this stupid couch. It's beginning to irritate the skin of his wrists, which are still slung over the edge, but then again, he really wants to buy that new router, so it'll have to wait. "I don't, but he sounds…amusing." He laughs, and it rings like tin in his ears. "So, then. Is the hierarchy being shaken up a bit?"

"A bit, maybe," Paul says, practically tripping over his words. "I mean, I don't know, and it's not really my place, but they—he's smart, anyway. Real smart."

"I'll bet," Matt says dryly, and he's beginning to get bored. "Anything else new?"

"I—well, I mean, nothing's happened." Matt wants to shoot the idiot in the face, he really does, but there's nothing for it. "You want me to get you anything?"

"I'm fine." Matt's right arm folds back into place so he can grip the phone properly, with his hand instead of his shoulder. "That last chip was great, Paul." He sighs. "Keep me posted. If there's a disturbance, I want to know about it, posthaste. I'm not getting myself licked."

"Got it," Paul says, trying to sound chipper and failing miserably. "I'll see you later, shall I?"

Matt considers returning the pleasantry, but social conventions are such a bore; he clicks the  _end_  button on the phone and slips it back into his pocket. Silence.

He stays there for a moment, right hand brushing lazily against the floor, left arm slung over the couch cushions. He counts seconds in heartbeats, minutes in breaths, and suddenly he's just sick of it all.

Paul, the little rodent that he is, says that there's a new kid shaking up the structure in the local community—a blonde kid, one with a demonic demeanor and a chocolate fetish. He's also, by Paul's account, a manipulative prodigy, and he's apparently got one of the local gang heads wrapped around his little finger.  _Pet._  Well, there's one label that's never applied to Mello. Matt wonders how  _that_  happened, and which bits of Paul's rumors are actually true.

So, then. He's found him, finally—Mello. Or, actual, it's  _Hannon_  now, isn't it? (Again, according to Paul.) Matt finds that funny, but Hannon's less memorable than a name like Mello, he supposes. So, he's gone and named himself after John Hannon—the founder of the first chocolate factory in America. How very fitting.

Matt slips his goggles up over his head, pushing back both bangs and the orange glow from his lenses.  _Great._  So he's found him. Now what?

The smart thing—the sensible thing—would be to get in touch with him. Call him. Email, send a letter, hack into his system and leave a smug little note. Except—none of that's particularly appealing right now, and Matt can't for the life of him figure out why.

_The funny thing about goals,_  the snide voice in the back of his head remarks,  _is that once you finally hit them, you've got nothing left to do._

There's a number programmed into his phone. Matt's got feelers in most of the underground here, tiny little roots and carefully nurtured bulbs, all good sources of information. He writes code, distributes it, gets paid, and leaves, and that's how his job works—except, he leaves backdoors in every program he writes, and there's no way to get his programs  _out_  of a system once he's put them in. He could get in touch with Mello, easily, if he wanted to.

He doesn't.

Matt rolls off his couch and grabs his DS, still mulling over the latest development. Mello's here. Mello's here, in Vegas, and Matt could talk to him, if he wanted to. The game starts up; today, it's Super Mario Brothers, and he's beaten it at least six times, but he keeps coming back. It's all about reflexes and a system of controls. Easy stuff, but good; this is the kind of game he used to play back at Wammy, all those years ago. Christ. He's all growed-up now, but that doesn't stop him from playing his games. Super Mario puts blackjack to shame.

At some point, once you play a game long enough, the music, the animations, all of it—the game worms itself into your head. When you close your eyes, it's there, lurking, waiting, an alternate world that seizes your consciousness by the scruff of the neck and refuses to leave. Once you start the game, you can't stop it; like it or not, your mind's going to keep on playing, even if your thumbs have long since stopped.

Chasing Mello—

It's a lot like that, and for the fiftieth time, Matt wishes that he had something better to do. As it is, though, he's got a cigarette clenched in his teeth and plastic buttons under his thumbs, so life is almost okay.

Almost.


	2. Chapter 2

Matt's beginning to get dizzy. The rumbling wave of conversation—it flows around him, immerses him, batters him when it crests and leaves him lurching at its troughs. His hands are shaking on the glass, and he keeps losing tracks of his cards. There's a girl sitting next to him, trying to strike up a conversation, and Matt replies. His tongue twines itself in knots and she turns away; for once, Matt doesn't mind. He doesn't need any more complications.

He loses track of the count again, and the guy swipes his chips with a practiced hand, grinning through a missing tooth. The air is crawling with smoke, which is how Matt likes it; he never feels compelled to light one of his own, in here. The atmosphere is smothering enough that he can get his fix via secondhand smoke alone.

This isn't one of his favorite haunts, when it comes to actually entertaining himself. It would be far more dangerous to be caught counting here than in an ordinary, licensed casino. The stakes are higher at the Zenith. It's an ironic name, really, because so many of them could be considered anything but upper class. Matt takes full advantage of that: the main reason he frequents this place is the business. There's never a shortage of people looking to act upon a grudge, and Matt's methods can be untraceable, devastating, and far more entertaining than old-time threats.

Matt motions for the next card, and a ten spins over the dealer's hand, bringing his cards up to a neat twenty-three. He should have known better.

"I'm done," he declares, setting his drink down. The dealer raises an eyebrow.

"You sure?"

Matt flashes him a grin. "I'll be back," he says. "I've got to earn my keep somehow."

The dealer laughs at that. It's a broad laugh, an open one, but Matt has heard similar ones enough to know that what seems the truest is usually a dead lie. He should know this guy's name, probably, and if he strains a bit, he could probably recall it—but there's no incentive, so he doesn't bother. The alcohol's burning in his blood as it is, and he needs all of his remaining mental capacities.

"Come on," the dealer says. "The first night you start to lose, and you walk away from me? And how many drinks have we pumped in you?"

"Only seven or so," Matt says lightly. "But like I said—I'll be back."

The dealer shakes his head and waves him off. Matt scoops his chips into his palms and dumps them in his vest pockets. This is why he likes the Zenith. In any high-end Vegas casino, chatting with an employee for an extended period of time would likely get you an irritable glance from the manager and, if you kept it up, you'd probably find yourself thrown out. At least here, he can keep himself entertained.

He slips through the muddle of players and finally emerges at the bar, which at this hour is abuzz with traffic. Matt pushes his way past the bar and finally stumbles over to his usual table—which, unsurprisingly, already has an occupant.

Matt ignores him and drops into the chair, immediately kicking his feet out and crossing them over the table. His bag is dropped by his side, but not before his DS is retrieved, and Matt swallows his boredom for the sake of playing this act out. Again.

Matt, being Matt, could never be content with the limited capabilities of a typical piece of hardware. There's a hidden camera wired into the case of this particular Gameboy, and, of course, a program for displaying a live feed from said camera. A blatant viewer would be too obvious, of course; instead, Matt's program outputs the image, not as a collection of pixels, but as a series of numbers: computer graphics in their rawest form. Binary code—the fundamental building blocks of life, the universe, and everything. Perhaps it's related to forty-two.

It took him four months to learn this particular technique, the rapid translating of numeric code into visuals. It's not perfect—far from it—but Matt finds it entertaining. And that's what life's about, really, once you strip it to its barest form. Cut away the thin skin of society, peel back the musculature of individual conviction, and you're faced with the simple skeleton that holds it all together: desire, the fundamental drive that motivates all of humanity. All that any human desires is to be entertained. The dearth of occupation leads to discontent, and discontent is never healthy.

This guy has a skinny, sallow face; Matt reads an unhealthy yellow tinge in the color codes. Blue eyes, a mop of dark brown hair, and a smattering of peculiar variations in the skin. Black smudges for the background. The man—he reminds Matt of someone, though he can't put a finger on it. Mind, this is just his own translation of numbers, an imperfect system at best, but he can definitely make out an impatient expression within his mental visualization. He can wait. Either this stranger will speak, or he won't; chances are that he will. This is, after all, Matt's table.

Twenty minutes in, and Matt's starting to get bored, but finally, the numbers on his screen warp with a significant change in input: the guy's mouth is moving. "They didn't lie about your reticence," the man says. He has a placid voice, the kind that just kind of washes right over you, like lukewarm water. "I take it your night has been pleasant?"

Matt doesn't take his eyes from the screen. He's yet to look at the man's actual face; this is much more engaging. "Not when I spend half of it waiting," he replies easily, matching the man's voice note for note of mild pleasantry.

He can hear the shrug in the man's voice even without the aid of his code. "I could hardly call this half the night."

This isn't how it usually goes. Matt's used to the posturing, but this is absurd. His clients, such as they are, are normally as impatient to be done with this as he is; the niceties are generally discarded in favor of speed. He's a hacker. Nobody feels likes wasting their breath on a hacker.

"Anyway," the man says, "I've got a message for you. Will you take it?"

Finally, the request, and Matt can allow himself to look up. The man's face is much as he has envisioned it despite being seen through the orange goggles, though Matt still can't pinpoint who it reminds him of. His arms are folded on the table. "Sure thing," Matt says lazily, and the DS snaps shut. Hopefully— _hopefully_ —it'll be a job. He doesn't need the money so much as the entertainment.

"Travis would like to request you to swing by," the man informs him. "Tomorrow night, if it suits your schedule. He'll send a car here to bring you."

"I only work out of my own place," Matt retorts. "Can't he just give me the job, same as usual? I always get it done."

"This is a special matter, apparently."

Matt sighs. So much for the 'request.' It's  _probably_  not a good idea to refuse Travis. The guy's bloated sense of egotism is bigger than Near's.

The only problem: Mello's been spotted with Travis. The last thing the two of them need to do is run into each other—or at least, it's something that Matt wants to avoid. On the other hand, if he does see Mello—well, that'll make for an entertaining conversation. And he can't really refuse this; he's got a carefully crafted persona to uphold.

"Fine," he says. "But tell him that I've got other projects right now. My time isn't free."

The implied agreement—that Matt's going to charge just for a consultation—is unusual, but he's feeling pissed. There was an email from Roger in his inbox this morning, saying much the same as Near's, only in more congenial terms. Life is less than grand.

The guy shrugs. "I'll pass it along," he replies. "Eleven?"

Matt considers. Eleven is rather early in the evening, but that's good; it means that Travis actually intends on talking. Or, rather, he wants to impress upon Matt the fact that he intends on talking. You could talk yourself in circles with that logic.

"Sounds good," Matt says finally, and sallow-face's lips split into a grin.

"Good," he repeats, and he clips Matt on the shoulder with his right hand in the passing.

Once he's gone, Matt slouches over to the bar and tells the barkeep he wants something strong, and he doesn't car what. They don't even charge him, here; he's built up enough of a reputation in the past two years that he's given that small amount of trust. Matt has fun paying his bills: dumping the money directly into their account, along with a little side memo, aggravates the owner to no end, but it works, doesn't it?

He waits for a moment while the drink surges through his blood, setting his brain alight, and his world tips just a little bit. And then it fades: like anything else, drunkenness is fleeting. Matt can never manage to hold on to that elusive peak.

By the time he gets back to the apartment, he's got a migraine.

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Matt wakes up early to the sounds of screaming coming from a room two floors down. His head is still throbbing; with a groan, he presses the pillow over his ears and wills the cacophony to go away.

It doesn't.

He rolls off the mattress and pulls a T-shirt over his head to ward off the mild early-morning chill. His laptop is, as always, quick to boot; within five minutes he's staring numbly at the security feed from his beloved neighbors' room. It's a couple, and—surprise—they're fighting. A plate that looks like a reject from the Dollar Store spins past the guy's head and he ducks; it rings when it hits the drywall and then falls to the floor. Matt's lips curls. She could at least pick a  _breakable_  projectile. What's a pathetic plastic plate going to do to the guy?

Matt considers doing a voice-over from his laptop and freaking them both out, but his microphone is in the other room. Revenge can wait for another day; for now, his head is adamantly reminding him that his alcohol tolerance is worthless on the day after.

The clock reads six forty-one.

With a sigh, Matt wobbles to his feet and goes in search of breakfast. It doesn't sound like he's going to be getting any more sleep tonight. Today. Whatever.

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Noontime.

Matt's visiting Red Rock Canyon, just outside the city, and thin lines of tourists traverse the rocks like rows of ants, marching up and down predetermined paths sanctioned by official guidelines. His own perch, high above all of the nonsensical chattering below, isn't exactly smiled upon by those who style themselves law enforcers, but he doesn't worry. The security is a lot more lax this year, and Matt has to think that in part, it's Kira's doing; even the Family has been lying low. The guy's taken some pressure off of the police. Now, they can wield cameras instead of guns—though they haven't abandoned those yet. Not quite.

He sprawls out on the wide expanse of scorched rock, and the sun burns rims around his goggles. Words chase each other around his head, forming an endless loop of repeating syllables. Near. SPK. Mello. Mafia. L's death. Requesting your help. Yagami Light.

Kira.

Between this morning's email and his own conjectures, Matt's got more than enough on his mind. He needs to shove it all out, pour it from of his ears like so much tepid seawater. He starts chanting the first words that come to mind, seeking nothing more than simple peace.

One two tree rain fire snow mire muck grate screech whine. Bellow death inferno Dante sanity sanction devolves run. Hexadecimal spin curse twist twine—

Nonsense, all of it.

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Travis's place is a sprawling warehouse, rigged to the gills with wiring. Matt's impressed, in spite of himself. Unfortunately, it looks a lot bigger, from the outside. He's fairly sure that the warren of hallways is newly constructed, and all of the tiny little rooms are probably packed full of stuff that he'd be better off without.

The common room, as his guide calls it, is wide enough. There's a bank of computers on the far wall, a collection of tattered sofas, a three-legged chair, a table, and a TV. That's it. The paint is peeling in speckled stripes of industrial green-gray, and if Matt were to touch it, it would probably crumble under his fingers. Above, ceiling fans whir and whistle and shudder, and Matt wonders if they're likely to fall any time soon. A quick mental calculation: there's a forty-eight percent chance of that, within the next month. He nearly jumps with the overwhelming joy.

Travis himself—he's nothing new. Brown eyes, set deep in a boyish face, behind smudged layers of baby fat that never quite drained away. Brown hair, cropped just below his ears in a jagged cut that streaks a lightning bolt across his face. And, of course, browned skin: despite his Caucasian heritage, despite the fact that he spends most of his life in buildings and nighttime streets, Travis has skin the color of rich caramel. Matt wonders if he frequents the faux-tanning booths. That would be a laugh. The homogenous palette of his features is a bore that Matt's well used to. He's done jobs here before—nothing particularly challenging, nothing that couldn't be done from his home. It makes him wonder what today's assignment is.

The gun is hidden in his jeans, covered by his beige vest, the one with the fur lining. Matt, he's never been one for the cold. The fur isn't for show.

Travis is leaning back on one of the couches, and he motions for Matt to join him on the opposing seat. Matt obliges; this puts them face to face, an unusual situation. Normally he's got his DS to hide behind.

"So," Travis says. "You did well, the last time."

Matt shrugs. Last time wasn't anything special. This is just prelude.

Travis sighs and spins his watch around his wrist. "Matt," he says, not meeting the hacker's eyes, "I assume you keep up to date on Kira?"

The back of Matt's neck prickles. "Not really," he says casually. "I'm none too concerned." Which is a lie, really, but it's in character. Travis won't be expecting a straightforward answer.

"L is losing," Travis says now, and Matt suppresses a wince; if only he knew. "It seemed fairly even, before, but now—"

"Kira's gaining ground?"

"It's hard to rally the people to the cause of stuffy legalities." Travis's mouth twists wryly. "Kira's brand of justice is  _much_  more popular—which, unfortunately, isn't exactly good for us." He meets Matt's gaze. "I think that you can agree with that much. You'd be considered an accomplice to a good many crimes by this point, quite a few of which are noteworthy felonies."

He's referring to Matt's hunting, of course; a fair share of his jobs involve searching out missing debtors, though he doesn't actually partake in the waiting retributions. "Like I said," Matt repeats, "I'm not particularly concerned with Kira…unless you think I ought to be. I haven't been following him, honestly." The last bit is a nod to Matt's status here. He's not here to play power games.

Travis appreciates it. "You probably should be," he says. "Just a friendly tip, of course."

"Of course."

"Now." Travis grins and sits up. "What I want you to do is to sweep this building for bugs, if that's not a problem. Kira has begun targeting criminals other than murderers."

Matt considers it. "That's a pretty mundane task. Why me?"

"You're thorough. And you've got a brain."

The cigarette finds its way to his fingers without being directed; it's an old friend. Matt fixes Travis with a cockeyed grin, keeping it wedged between his lips as he hunts down his lighter. "Time-consuming, too. It'll cost you."

Travis shrugs, and Matt finds his lighter. The cigarette catches light with a quiet hiss, and Matt snaps the lid shut. "I'm willing," Travis says. "Can you do it tonight?"

"Haven't got aught better to do," Matt replies cheerfully, and he realizes—with more than a bit of irony—that for once, he's telling the truth. He hates bug sweeping, but, hey—the last thing he needs is to be back at his apartment, again. And Travis isn't someone he plans on irritating—not to his face, anyway. He's got plans for later.

Oh, and they are such  _shiny_  plans.

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He brought his duffel, thankfully, so all of his spare tools are on hand. Matt combs through the building slowly, examining each room in its entirety. Chairs are dissembled; bookshelves are decimated. He searches for activity of all kinds: general electric, radio, and just about anything that he's got a reader for. He examines things by sight, too, and he's pleased to note that most of the bugs are amateur. There's a listening device plugged into the lining of a chair; there's a button camera nestled in an air duct. He keeps going. By one in the morning, he's done with a fourth of the building.

"I'm going to need coffee," he informs his guide tartly, and the guy pulls out a phone. Besides the two of them, Travis is the only one in the building. Cleaning house wouldn't really work if the place were crawling with its typical denizens.

Matt sighs and slaps another Post-It on a door to mark it as cleaned. The guy left to go get the coffee, which means that he's a bit lost, not that it matters. If he actually needed to get out, he could; for now, he just goes to the next door and kicks it open with his foot, lugging the duffel behind him. All of these rooms are empty, for the most part; a few are stuffed to the gills with weapons, and others are host to drugs. This whole hallway is barren, though, and he expects the next room to be much the same—

It's occupied.

The first thing he registers is the boots. They're black boots, imposing, with giant laces and silver buckles, propped up on an ottoman, and they  _shout_  the swaggering arrogance of the owner. The next thing he notices is the leather: too much of it to be remotely tasteful, and all black, as if the kid's making a mockery of mourning. Matt feels disdain settling over his features; just another hotshot kid who thinks his rebellion is unique.

There's a book in the way of the boy's face, grasped by a black-gloved hand, but Matt doesn't really care. Just another kid. This room, surprisingly enough, is decked out with relative luxuries: carpet, a computer, a bookcase, working lights. The chair looks like leather, too, though it's red instead of black. Great. This place is going to take forever to sweep.

The kid flips a page in his book.

"Hey," Matt says, feeling irritation breathing to life alongside the cigarette smoke. "Do you mind? I'm doing a bug sweep."

Too late, he catches the hand dropping to a belt, and there's a gun pointed directly at his head, and  _bang_ —

Air explodes in a sonic rush of compressed space. The doorframe smashes in a burst of splinters, all blasted wood and splattered drywall, and Matt's shoulder burns from where the bullet hisses past his skin. He staggers to the side and draws his own gun, spinning it into his right hand as the duffel thuds to the ground. He's got the wall to his back. "You missed," he mutters, and he clicks the safety off. The trigger brushes his finger.

The book lowers. "I'm rather busy," the boy says, matching Matt's previous irritation, and Matt's fingers tremble on the gun. "Now will you go—"

Matt, whose mind is rather occupied with the whole holy-fuck-I-nearly-got-blow-to-pieces track, still manages to stitch his wits together, and his breath returns in a wheezy rush of air. _"Mello."_

And now it's time for a distinctly different sort of holy-fuck moment, but Matt doesn't drop his gun. They stare at each other for a moment, Matt's gun trembling with the rigidity of his grip, Mello's grasped loosely in his  _left_  hand, both pointed at the other, each of them freezing as realization hits. Mello's eyes are still half-closed, as if from boredom.

"Matt," Mello says mildly, and he tips his head to the side.

Matt swallows and feels his arm fall limp by his side, because this is  _Mello_ , and thank God it's not some lunatic crack addict. "So I am," he says, real irritation infusing itself into his voice now, and for the umpteenth time he's glad of the privacy afforded by his goggles. "Do you mind telling me why you felt inclined to shoot?"

"I wasn't aiming to actually hit you," Mello replies casually. "And my name's Hannon."

This is so anticlimactic, and Matt forces himself not to stare. Both of them—their masks are well acclimated to stress, by this point, and even for this, they keep them intact. Mello. He looks…tired. There's a new edge to him, to his movements. The familiar tilt of his head is a bit sharper, and the glare has new venom: this is Mello no longer, but  _Hannon_.

"So," Mello says. "It took you long enough to get here." He rises from his chair, lynx-like, and walks past Matt. "Finish your job."

Mello, he closes the door as he leaves, and Matt's left standing with his back pressed to the wall. The empty red chair stares back at him, along with Mello's discarded book, and there's a hole gouged in the doorframe, and the sawdust makes his cigarette taste like sand. Matt drops it to the floor and grinds it under his heel.

And then, ever so slowly, he reaches for his duffel and draws out the monitoring equipment.  _Finish your job._  As if Matt's his to order around. It's been—years, already, and that's all he's got to say. Not that Matt has much to add. Mello, at least, could always recognize his 'friendship' for the self-serving interest that it was.

So, then. Mello wants to play another game.

He can live with that.


	3. Chapter 3

He finishes his job.

Travis is waiting in the common room, and the ridges of fat that line his face are wrinkled in vague concern. More prevalent, however, is the faint flush of anger that burnishes his bronzed skin with maroon. He's frowning. "You finished?" he asks. Matt nods.

"All closed up," he says, and he sinks into the couch across from his current employer. Travis holds out a hand, and Matt pours a mess of dismantled wiring into his cupped palm. "Twenty-four audio bugs, mostly in offices," he continues. "Two of them were too unstable to be salvaged. Ten video cams. The rest are in this bag, here." He kicks a small tote by his feet. "Keep it if you want. The ones right there"—he nods at Travis's open hand—"are the ones you can recycle the easiest. Some of the ones in the bag might work, too, but I dunno." Matt shrugs. "Anything else?"

"That'll be fine." Travis sighs and reaches deep into his pocket. Matt doesn't allow himself to stiffen, not this time, but in the end, it's just a money clip, not a gun. Mello's the only one volatile enough to pull  _that_  one tonight, apparently. Travis peels off a wad of bills and hands them over. "Anyway," he continues, "is there anything you might want to explain?"

Matt fishes out a cigarette with his left hand while his right pockets the bills. "Explain?"

"I heard a gun go off." Travis leans back in his chair. "I know it wasn't  _your_  gun—I trust in your intelligence, Matt—and there's only one other person who could have fired it."  _Bullshit,_ Matt thinks; Travis knows it wasn't his because he was searched as soon as they met. The man grimaces and continues. "That person, naturally, is Hannon. What worries me, actually, is that Hannon fired a gun, presumably  _at you_ , and you're still here. Hannon doesn't miss."

"I'm sorry?"

"Matt," Travis says, and there's a strain creeping into his voice, "I think now would be the time to explain."

Matt exhales slowly. The cigarette dangles limply from his fingers, unlit, and with a regretful look, he puts it back in his pocket. "Nothing to it, really," he says finally. "I know Hannon from a while ago, that's all. Apparently he's as much of a jerk as ever."

That last sentence—muttered half to himself—startles a wry laugh out of Travis. "Glad to hear it," he says, and it's a lie as surely as if it had been a pledge of universal health care uttered by some politician. Matt's wiser than that.

"Look," Matt says. "I ought to be going."

Travis nods. "We'll see each other soon enough, I'm sure."

"Sounds good to me."

Travis doesn't offer his hand when Matt leaves. He doesn't stand up, either, and Matt understands: some semblance of authority must be maintained, after all, even if his own intelligence is far superior. After a curt command, the guy from earlier shows up and drives Matt back to the Zenith, back to his card games and drinks and secondhand smoke.

His phone tells him it's three in the morning; his stomach tells him it might as well be noon. He ignores his stomach, pockets his phone, and thanks the driver. And then he's alone, or as alone as he can be in this sweltering desert melting pot of ripe, malodorous flesh. Oh, Matt loves the city.

Now, of course, he's got a bit of a problem, and he wastes time in the casino for a good three hours before venturing back to his car. By that time, his head is clouded with a pleasant haze of smoke and a single bottle downed on an empty stomach, but he still remembers to do the bug check. Surprise, surprise: he finds an audio job. How lovely. Do they really think he's that careless?

After checking the Zenith's denizens for unwelcome, familiar faces, Matt hails a taxi and directs it to drop him off on the strip, where he can vanish into the milling masses. He'll pick up his car tomorrow. Today. Stupid nocturnal schedule.

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He gets out. He certainly won't miss his neighbors, and they won't miss him. Out comes his system in its entirety, piled into the back of his used pickup truck. Out comes everything: his mattress, his microwave, his desktop computer, his bags. Getting his old car back wasn't something he particularly cared to deal with, so instead, he bought another piece of crap with a half-decent engine. Convenience is almost as important as time.

He disables his security system, too, and adds some extra locks, just in case some idiot rearms it and blows up the whole shoddy complex. Matt never removes his explosives from a site—he might just want to remotely demolish something later, and anyway, it would be too time-consuming. At any rate, it'll give him a way to fill any future pyromanic rush.

It's easy to find another place, even with the housing market on the upswing. Matt doesn't need much, and by noon, he's got another apartment in another neighborhood with a ridiculous crime rate. It's clean, and that's all he cares about; Matt can take care of himself. This time, he makes sure to rig his not-new truck with security, too.

The reason behind his abrupt move, of course, is simple. A handful of quick calls to some of his  _friends_  reveal that, yeah, Hannon is Travis's—something. There's a few lewd suggestions made, but Matt's silence kind of kills their laughter. He knows better than to trust gossip; chances are, Mello's simply wormed his way into the poor bloke's mind, using whatever means are at hand. Both of them have sufficient intelligence to manage it through verbal persuasion alone, but Matt doesn't like humanity enough to bother. Mello normally wouldn't be the patient type, either, which leaves Matt wondering. The kid is  _definitely_ up to something.

So, yeah. He's getting sidetracked, isn't he? The reason behind his move: Mello's realized that he exists, and he's got Travis's little gang on his side. Whether the men who followed him at the Zenith were Travis's or Mello's, they were  _someone's,_  and he'd be a fool to let the dragon know the location of his camp. Matt doesn't want anything to do with him—

(Except, of course, there's the fact that it's been Matt kind-of-sort-of hunting Mello for all this time, not the other way around.)

This is a dangerous game, though, regardless of whether or not he wants to meet Mello again. He intends to preserve every advantage he's got, and location is one of those.

Even while he combs through his new apartment looking for bugs, Matt is startled to realize: there's a smile creeping across his face. He's missed having a real opponent.

This might actually be  _fun_.

And right after thinking that, he collapses onto his new bed, and all conscious thought goes out the window as exhaustion catches up, again.

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He skips out on the Zenith that night, but he's back on the next. This time there's a cigarette of his own dangling from his lips. Matt needs the nicotine fix: his taxi had a tail for quite some time, and it's going to be  _so much fun_  getting back to his new apartment. He'll probably spend the whole night here, and possibly the next. It wouldn't be a first.

The chatter soothes his nerves. The usual denizens are out in their full colors. While some place bets on the usual games, others gamble with far higher stakes in darkened corners, holding muted arguments as they haggle. Matt stays clear of the latter group and commanders a seat at his usual table, kicking out some hapless drunk in the process. He's got to give the guy credit—to the eye, he  _looks_  sober enough, and he could probably walk a line, but the swiftly dwindling pile of chips before him says otherwise. The man squawks, indignant.

"Hey, kid, what the fuck—"

"Out," the dealer says smoothly. It's the usual one— _Astarb_ , his brain supplies, now that there's no alcohol fumbling through his neural pathways. He grins through the missing tooth. "The kid's doing you a favor, John. Give him the seat and get yourself another beer."

John—or whatever the guy's name actually is—grumbles a bit and moves away. Matt nods to the dealer and tosses a few chips into the middle. "Long time, no see, eh?"

"Two days is too short, kid," Astarb retorts as he flips out the next hand. "You keep kicking out our gilded geese. We like the idiots."

"I guess my charisma is too endearing," Matt replies flippantly, and Astarb shakes his head. They soon fall in with the quick rhythm of blackjack: card and card and chip and chip, one-two-three cards on the table, quick commands and quicker losses. The other ones at his table are all regulars, too, though they're not counting. One of them—a girl with a sleek cascade of brown hair and too-red lipstick—glances over at him after Astarb takes another stack of chips from her. Soon after that, she starts following his bets—not chip-for-chip, but his general strategy. Matt notices. So does Astarb.

After a few more rounds, in which he purposefully loses half of tonight's haul, Matt rises and scoops up his chips. "I think I'm done," he says after flashing the dealer a bland smile. The other nods.

"See you later, I'm sure," he replies. Matt pushes his way to the bar, sweat pouring down his neck that's only partially attributable to the heated atmosphere. Damn. That woman had obviously caught on to Matt's too-fortunate luck—which, sadly, meant that the house's suspicions about his counting have probably been confirmed. He'll just have to play things carefully.

He orders another drink and starts chatting with the surrounding strangers, keenly aware that he needs to focus on their faces. It's too easy to forget names, particularly when everything is viewed through the orange screen of his goggles. His lenses tend to reduce humanity to nothing more than a parade of sallow-faced replicas, which, perhaps, is less a distortion of reality than an honest depiction of it.

The girl standing with him at the bar—she's nice. Matt's rather taken with the low sweep of her neckline, and, well, heck—he could do with a bit of fun tonight. She's an animated talker, which is a pain, but he'll deal. Matt's well accustomed to dealing with humans. He can go through the motions as convincingly as any award-laden actor—when he wants to, anyway.

And then a hand abruptly encroaches upon his space. "Matt," a familiar voice drawls. "I've been looking for you."

Matt turns around and glances from the hand on his shoulder to the smile on the intruder's face. Behind him, the girl giggles. "Matt," she says, "I didn't know you and Hannon were acquainted."

There's a tiny implication nestled in that last word, and Matt watches as Mello's smirk widens. Still, there's a faint glimmer of irritation carefully hidden behind the sapphire eyes, and Matt bites back a laugh; Mello's still the same, at least in some respects. He never could deal with criticism—intentional or otherwise. Not that Matt himself isn't irritated by the association, of course. Trust Mello to make his life more complicated within the first thirty seconds of a conversation.

"I've known him for a while," Matt replies lightly. He might as well keep his story straight. "We lost touch. He's pretty much a jerk—aren't you?"

This last is directed at Mello, who removes his hand from Matt's shoulder and drops it back down to his hip. "Ouch," he says. "So very scathing. I've got something I want to talk to you about, Matt—if that's all right with you, of course. You got time?"

And just like that, Mello has declared a game. Matt recognizes the challenge. Mello obviously realizes that Matt can't very well refuse—it would be  _far_  too impolite—and he's trying to strut a bit. Well, fine. He'll will learn one thing soon enough: Matt doesn't care.

"Sure thing," he says. He gives the girl a mock-bow. "I'm afraid we'll have to pick our conversation up later, milady."

Like clockwork, she gives another high-pitched giggle and waves him off. "Come back tomorrow," she says. "I'll be here."

Mello is impatient, and it shows. "Come on," Matt says. "My table's always empty."

"Can we talk there?"

Oh, it's a loaded question, all right, though from Mello's lips, anything could be. It's always about bloody competition for Mello. Matt doesn't care for the competition as much as he cares for its parent: the game.

Whether or not it's safe to talk is a matter in and of itself, but that's not what Matt's concerned about. The only person who really poses a threat to him is looking him squarely in the eyes right now, anyway. The real question, of course, is whether or not Matt will allow the conversation.

"Sure," Matt says. "Got a pressing situation or sommat?"

"Let's just sit," Mello suggests, and Matt shrugs. Fine.

His table is empty today. The chair cushions are stuffed with some synthetic foam, and various rips run like claw marks down the edges. The table itself is old, battered; it's got a thin cloth over it to hide the burn marks and water rings. Matt doesn't care. This is  _his_  place, carved out over months of loitering.

Mello lounges in his chair. It's the same position Matt had found him in, back at Travis's, with a few minor adjustments. Leaning back, arms folded over his chest, foot on the seat and knee propped against the wood: this is Mello in his predator's mood. The low lighting brushes the dark leather of his outfit, illuminating the tight-fitted folds with the bright contrast of reflection.

"It's been a while," Mello remarks. Matt lights a cigarette and shrugs. He doesn't offer one to Mello.

"Not really. And you've already said as much."

The cigarette dangles from his lips, sending a lazy plume of smoke wafting upward to mingle with the hazy atmosphere. The blonde inclines his head. "I suppose." He leans back and tilts his chin upwards, regarding Matt from his new perspective, his lips locked firmly in resolute silence.

It's a pose of purposeful relaxation. He's encroaching—or attempting to encroach—on Matt's space, and they're both aware of it. Time passes for a few moments as Mello remains quiet. The rapid babbling from the bar area overflows and swirls around them in vague eddies, leaving them both firmly anchored in their present game.

"Is there something wrong?" Matt asks innocently at last. It's not like Mello to be silent, but he supposes that these are…unusual circumstances, to say the least. Mello was right: it's been a while.

Mello shakes his head. "You've got an American accent now."

"For the Zenith. Don't you like it?"

The blonde sighs, but it's all theatrics, as far as Matt's concerned. "Well, then." His expression makes the jump from weary to cheerful without so much as an eyeblink. "I assume life has been treating you well?"

"Eh? Yeah." Matt follows the smoke's ascent with his eyes, deigning to follow the twists of airborne cancer rather than focus on the arrogant kid seated across from him. "I've got a bit of a business here."

"You like Vegas?"

"Sure." Matt returns his gaze to eye level and shrugs. "It's pretty nice."

"Been to New York?"

Matt shrugs. "Haven't managed it."

"Ah." Mello nods as if this is a matter of grave importance. "How about Boston?"

"Stayed there for a few months."

"I'm sure. Spring of 2005?"

"Of course."

Mello regards him for a moment. His eyes are half-lidded with a serpentine attitude of languid watchfulness. "You've been following me."

"Never said that," Matt retorts. "For all I know, you could be following  _me_."

"I got to Boston in December of 2004," Mello says. "I stayed until April. I'm not blind, you know."

"Neither am I," Matt says. "I'd appreciate it if you took those men off my tail."

Mello's fingers drum against the table. "Mm."

"You don't have your chocolate."

For the first time that night, Mello actually  _sees_  Matt. Matt can tell—there's the slightest dilating of the pupils, a shrinking of the icy irises that signals Mello's return to reality. The blonde's fingers falter in their drumming—only for a moment, but it's enough. It's always hard, arresting the full attention of a genius, but apparently Matt has managed it. Chocolate. It's a reminder, carefully packaged as a concerned remark, that they're not the same as they used to be—assuming, of course, that Mello doesn't have some sort of excuse lined up.

"Not tonight," Mello says lamely, and Matt smirks inwardly. Outwardly, of course, he maintains his stoic mask.

"Pity."

"You've still got your little addiction, I see," Mello drawls.  _Ouch_. Oh, the sting of revenge. Matt looks down at his cigarette.

"Yeah."

They sit in silence for a while, staring at each other, testing the waters of this new duel. Mello, Matt observes, has taken on a new persona—outwardly, at least. The leather is…different, but fitting. Only Mello could ever pull off something like  _that_  and still manage to charm any human who encountered him.

The predatory smirk is still there, a thin ghosting along his lips. It's been a while since Matt has been on the receiving end of Mello's gaze—the one that he uses when he intends on burrowing into his victim's mind, the one he uses when he plans on smashing their sanity with an ever-so-delicate sledgehammer. Matt doesn't like that look.

"So," Mello says eventually. "Were you ever going to contact me?"

"Wasn't planning on it," Matt replies mildly. "Hell of a greeting you gave me, too. Now I know why I was avoiding you."

"Consider it payback."

"Payback?" Matt repeats. "What have  _I_  done to you? You're the one who fired the freaking bullet, Mel."

"Precisely," Mello returns. "You  _haven't_  done anything for me."

"Ah." Matt hits the back of his chair and rests a foot on the edge of the table, testing his new position. "So  _that's_  why you bothered."

"Come again?"

"Oh, cut the bull, Mello." Matt takes the cigarette from his mouth and points it at the other. "You only came here to ask—or, more likely,  _order_ —me to do you a favor. I don't know what you're messing with, but I'm going to guess it's not one of Travis's projects, or you wouldn't bother with me. And here I was hoping that we'd actually get to play cat-and-mouse some more."

"You make it sound like I've been hunting you," Mello says irritably. He's rattled; Matt grins. It's been a while since the blonde has been around someone of comparable intelligence, obviously. "Although I  _could_  use your help."

"So I was right."

"Not necessarily."

"Logic," says Matt. "It's a virtue. It's also what makes the world go 'round." He grins. "What do you need?"

Mello looks at Matt thoughtfully. "Nothing particularly difficult for you, I assume. I need to cover my tracks—on my own computer. Travis has a dial-in on my system. He can see everything I do."

Matt quirks an eyebrow. "What did you do to deserve  _that_?"

"He does it to everyone. It's a pretty poor job, from what I can see, but I can't  _do_  anything because he's monitoring it." Mello looks irate, though whether it's because of Travis's incompetence or his own inability to act, Matt doesn't know. "As far as he knows, none of us know about it, and I'd like to keep it that way. I need you to fool his program without doing anything visible on my desktop."

"Interesting." Matt frowns. "Why do you need it?"

Mello just  _looks_  at him, and Matt sighs. "Look, I'm not risking my skin for you, Mel. I'm not at your beck and call like some. Why not just ask him? Rumor has it that you two are plenty  _friendly._ "

"Shut up," Mello growls. "I can't do that, anyway, and that's all you need to know." He laces his fingers behind his head. "You game or not, Matt? The kid I used to know never backed away from a challenge."

Matt considers it. It would be an easy job, guaranteed, and he had lied—it wouldn't pose a great risk to him. That's not what's at stake here, though.

"No," he says briskly. "You've got to do better than that, Mello."

Mello's grin locks in place. "What?"

"No." Matt places his gloved palms flat on the table and rises to his feet. "That's all. I pick my jobs, Mel." He readjusts his goggles and turns away. "See you later, yeah?"

Mello doesn't respond. Matt walks away with the rich taste of nicotine ash on his tongue, out into the cloudy haze of smoke and city smog and burning dreams. Outside, it's hot and humid, and he coughs a bit as exhaust from the highway pours into his lungs.

He does a quiet sweep for his stalkers, and upon finding no one, drops his cigarette beneath his heel and grinds it into the sidewalk. His truck starts with a splutter, and it lurches onto the highway with the ungainly gait of a waddling duck. He takes the long route to his new apartment, dwelling on side streets and meandering along detours before finally pulling into his parking space.

Above him, the stars are invisible. You can't see the celestial lights for the terrestrial smog.

Such a pity.

 


	4. Chapter 4

If there's one thing that bothers Matt, it's when people assume things that aren't true.

Humanity is one great manifestation of chaos theory—billions upon billions of people lurching haphazardly about thanks to what they term "free will." Matt has another name for it: a dull, repetitive string of predictable chemical reactions, which provide the illusion of independence while fettering the limbs of humanity as surely as any iron handcuffs.

He takes another drag from his cigarette. The belief in freedom of thought, of action, of deliberation—it's just one more error in the logbook of human history. The assumption that concerns him now, of course, is far less abstract, and far more irritating.

His new life in Vegas has been built up slowly, carefully, and he's nurtured it well. He's a hacker by trade, but it's more than that. Computers—they're his lifeblood, his family, his comrades. Matt drowns himself in the world of wires and numbers and code, because it's there, when he's alone with just himself and his glowing monitor—it's there. His sanctuary.

Hacking  _is_  his life, because he has nothing else. Card counting, his nicotine, the smog-stained neon of his lifestyle—none of it fills the void. Hell, maybe even his gadgetry isn't enough, because when it comes down to it, all Matt ever wants is more more more.

So. It bothers him, when people make assumptions—assumptions that he's nothing more than a tool to be used, for example. Assumptions that he's replaceable, that he can be discarded after the job is done.

Matt, his web is bigger than that.

His influence is spreading throughout the city, and nobody has even noticed. Like a glistening spiderweb, unseen by apathetic eyes, his strings stretch along an electric network of contacts, quietly hidden until he calls them into action. His backdoor programs are everywhere, hardwired into the underground in such a way that Quilish Wammy himself would be hard pressed to uproot him. To Matt, this is true beauty: the delicate arching of code and charisma, of manipulation and machines. This is his progeny.

When Near calls and demands that he turn over Mello's location, Matt ignores him. Likewise, when Mello shows up at the Zenith again, Matt turns away and goes back to his conversation. There's an exciting project ahead of him, one that involves a number of corporate encryption schemes, and he doesn't care enough to bother with the blonde.

And so, even as his old world attempts to intrude, Matt tunes it out.

By the time his world gets shaken up, autumn is well on its way, and the promise of cool air is just beginning to replace the arid desert heat.

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"—top headlines for today. Kira's justice continues. Ten death-row inmates were found dead this morning in a Texas prison, all from heart attacks. No news from L's team regarding their next move—"

"Satan walks among us! He wears the robes of L's law, the garb of a shoddy legal system that has failed to administer justice! Kira's justice is sweeping through the nation. It is our duty—nay, our  _right_ —to step forward and provide—"

"While the major nations of the world have all bowed to Kira's will, there has remained a defiant, international sect that claims no country, no fidelity. Kira has unearthed a number of these poor, misguided souls, and we have received news that this unnamed cell is based here in America—"

"Crime rates have dropped by sixty percent across the world. This latest boon is undoubtedly the work of—"

"Kira's reign is upon us! Tremble, criminals; quake, murderers! Kira has come, and he is God! He is our god, and there is none else—"

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Two thousand and seven years after the supposed birth of a mythical man. October. It's still far too warm here for the season, and his window unit is in overdrive. Matt's a Brit, born and bred, and he doesn't exactly find the Nevada climate endearing. Even on the East Coast, it hadn't been this bad.

Bloody  _October,_  and he's roasting.

He's more concerned about his system than anything else. The fans on his desktop computers are whirring full-blast, and the cases are open, but he's still a touch worried. It wouldn't do to have one of them overheat and quit.

Matt grips the collar of his shirt and tugs it over his head, groaning as the damp fabric slides over his hair. The stripes grin at him like candy cane swirls, and he wads it up into a ball and tosses it into the corner.

It's so bloody  _hot_.

He had another email from Near this morning. The kid just doesn't know when to quit. They're both sixteen, but Near acts for all the world like a middle-aged man who knows precisely how much he can do: arrogant, conceited, and above all,  _justified_.

Matt doesn't understand what the big deal is. Sure, he knows where Mello is, but surely Near can find out that much on his own. The albino has something planned, and all that Matt knows is that it's no concern of his. The two prodigies are apparently locked in the same struggle as ever, and he wants no part in it. Mello and Near tend to suck the fun out of everything.

The air in his apartment smells of smoke, and he wants another cigarette. It would certainly help his nerves; thinking about those two is never good. Matt, he enjoys the mind games, the manipulation, the pitting of mind against mind and craft against wit. He  _doesn't_  enjoy the cutthroat edge that strips the methodology of its thrill. When everyone focuses solely on the outcome, the means falls to the wayside. Matt finds elegance in the method; it's a craft that is solely  _his._  All of his hacking is an end in itself—not a means to an end.

He coughs, and that's odd, because normally his breathing is fine. He tries to inhale—and fails. There's not enough oxygen in the air, his lungs protest, and for whatever reason, he starts hacking, great big seal coughs that come croaking out of his throat.

That's when the warning bells go off.

He had thought that the heat was odd, before.

His emergency training from the House kicks in. Matt bolts for the door, and the fire alarm starts wailing. He leaves the room, stumbles down the hall, and slams into the door to the balcony, still unable to breathe. The open air hits him like a smack to the gut, and his smoker's lungs heave as the rich oxygen pours in and lights his blood on fire. Down the fire escape he goes, then, and the black metal twines along the building's skeleton like a lurking spider.

By the time he leaps off the fire escape and onto the pavement, the entire complex is glowing with fiendish delight. The orange spark of fire is dimmed only by the great columns of smoke spiraling swiftly upward into the void of the sky, blotting out what little might have been seen of the stars. The fire roars, too, and it nearly drowns out the steady stream of profanities swirling through the street as the residents tumble out of their doors.

Inside, a girl starts screaming, and it's a horrific E-flat that grates against the night air like the squealing of steel against bone.

Matt pinches the bridge of his nose and waits. Sure enough, the flames reach his apartment on the fifth floor, and he hears it: the explosion, tearing through the air like the snarling of thunder. His security system has been triggered.

A sudden flare of flames nearly blinds the bystanders, and Matt wordlessly digs into his pocket for a cigarette.

Yeah. He really needs it, this time.

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"Hey," Mello says as he slides into the booth. "It's you again. Fancy seeing you here."

Matt just stares at him. His eyes take in it all: the cocky leather, the lopsided grin, the fierce vitality burning off of Mello's skin in electric waves. He shakes his head. "Bug off."

"Not until you explain a few things," the blonde returns, and Matt sighs.

There are bags under his eyes, he knows, great gray smudges of weariness and stress, and he probably resembles a disgruntled raccoon rather than a Wammy House prodigy. His hair juts out at porcupine angles, unfettered by the goggles hanging forlornly around his neck, and the shirt he nicked from the thrift store is well on its way to the landfill. This is  _not_  a good day.

"There's nothing to explain," Matt says dully. "I'm just…crashing here for a while. I'll leave, eventually. They'll throw me out."

The Zenith is the only place where he can fly on credit alone, and so Matt's here. He's actually made a small bit from said credit at the blackjack tables, but it's been three days, and he's been sleeping in the back alley during the day and coming in as soon as the doors open at night. This can't last.

"You're crazy, you know," Mello informs him. "Can't you find a park bench or a bus or  _somewhere_  to stay? Somewhere safe?"

"I'm not planning on being here forever." His voice is a quiet mumble, barely audible over the hum of chaotic conversation.

Mello's eyes spark. "Nowhere to go?"

Matt stares at him again, and his eyes are so red that it's a wonder he can see at all. "No. I mean—I won't. Don't do this."

"Won't what?" Mello leans back against the seat. "I haven't offered anything."

"You…stop it." Matt's hands tremble on the table, and he closes his eyes so he won't have to see. "You haven't even asked why I'm here."

"Everyone knows."

"Because you told them." He presses a palm to his throbbing forehead and threads his fingers through his hair. "I don't…I haven't bothered stopping in at the bank yet. I need a new ID to get to my money, anyway. And I lost my system. My fucking  _system,_  Mello. Don't tell me you don't know about that fire."

"Matt." The name is quiet. "Calm down. Crash at my place. I owe you that much."

"You owe…" Matt shakes his head slowly. "No. Months of silence, and all of a sudden you're friendly? We've never been friends." He pauses and cracks a weary grin. "No offense meant, of course."

"None taken," Mello says. "We  _aren't_  friends. Nevertheless…the offer stands."

Matt stares at him, stares at the jaunty grin hiding behind the stoic exterior, stares at the Cheshire amusement lurking behind the serious sapphire eyes. "You find me funny."

"Just predictable," Mello replies. "And maybe a bit sad, too, but that's irrelevant."

The hacker gives a curt laugh. "Thanks for being frank."

"Any time." Mello cocks his head to the side. "So. You game?"

"You're not going to let this drop, are you?"

"Nope."

Normally, Matt would refuse. He could, actually. It won't be too hard to get his hands on his bank account, and he'd be able to start rebuilding, slowly. Except—he doesn't think that fire was an accident.

He's so  _tired._  He feels like a damp rag bloated with water and wood smoke—heavy and limp and dull. The smoky haze of this place could choke him, it feels, and it's the first time he's actually been  _bothered_  by smoke in years. Matt chalks it up to early withdrawal symptoms; he hasn't smoked in days.

His brain concedes defeat, and his lungs deflate. "Thanks, Mello."

"Don't mention it," the blonde says, and Matt can see the triumphant gleam of victory in his eyes.

"I'm not thanking you for giving me a roof, you moron." Matt eases himself out of the booth and stands, swaying awkwardly on his unsteady feet. "Just for giving me the illusion of free will. I need it."

"Point taken." Mello rises, too. "Come on. You need a shower. You reek."

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Matt takes the shower.

He lets the water run, pouring off of him in cascades of steaming liquid, drumming against his skin in a percussive rhythm. The steam rises, scalding his bared flesh, and he twists the knob still farther, until the heat becomes so ridiculous he  _knows_  that Mello's hot water heater is going to give out. The pain is a welcome release, cutting through his numbness and grounding him in reality.

Matt tips his head back and lets the water beat against his closed eyelids, streaking through his hair and stripping it of layers of malodorous dirt and grime and smoke. Smoke. Always the smoke.

He wonders if the addiction should bother him. It's always bothered Mello, but then, Matt doesn't expect to live long enough to die of cancer, so it's not an issue.

Ten minutes pass, and the hot water still hasn't run out. Matt wonders. The tile looks expensive, not that he knows much, but it's definitely stone. The fixtures are all stainless steel. It's a far cry from the bathroom at his old apartment, with its peeling plastic tiles and the leak in the ceiling. It reminds him of Wammy House, and it feels foreign.

He doesn't know anything about this place, just as he knows nothing about Mello. The blonde is a mystery. He's always been, to a point, but at least there had been a precedent for interaction at the orphanage. There's no script to follow here.

Eventually, Matt turns the knob off and waits as the water slips from his skin. Outside the shower are a towel and a set of clothes—a striped shirt, boxers, and a pair of jeans, all in his size; together, they form his standard uniform.

Hmm.

Curious.

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"Took you long enough," Mello calls as Matt walks into the room. He doesn't look up from the papers in his hands. "You hungry?"

"Sure."

"There's pizza in the fridge. Help yourself."

Matt doesn't move, opting instead to observe. This room—the living room, he supposes—is huge, for an apartment. There's a plasma on the wall, and a white leather couch serves as Mello's perch. One thing he has noticed, though—there aren't any windows in the entire building, and it's completely bland. Everything has been left developer-beige.

Matt cautiously sits on the couch next to the blonde. "Mello."

It takes him a moment to look up; when he does, his eyes are full of bored irritation. "What?"

Matt keeps his gaze stead. "Why?"

He doesn't need to say more. Mello gives a little half-laugh and rises gracefully to his feet, dropping his papers on the couch. "Follow me."

He leads him down the hallway and to a locked door; it's secured with a keypad. Matt memorizes the numeric code, but Mello catches his eye and shakes his head. "Dynamic," he says simply, and Matt nods. It figures. Given a few more samples, of course, he'll be able to break it; they both know it, and so it goes unsaid.

The room behind the door is unreal. Matt stares at it. There are monitors mounted everywhere, gleaming like the faceted surface of an insect's eye, and the computers lie stacked in neat columns. Even from here, Matt can intuit the processing power that Mello has at his fingertips, and the neat stretches of wiring speak for themselves. This system is cohesive, and it utilizes every inch of space in what was probably intended to be a closet. Matt is used to working off of remote networks, which is well and good, but it limits the rate of data transfer. Physical resources limit local connections, so he doesn't normally dabble with them, but this…

"Just so you know," Mello announces, "this is a gift from Travis. Remember what I told you about it earlier?"

Matt takes the hint: it's not secure. He nods. Mello continues. "This is the 'why,'" he explains. "This is why I need you here, and it's also why you're going to stay."

"I'm an indentured servant." Matt takes a step into the room and brushes his fingers over the nearest keyboard. A monitor beeps and awakens from its slumber. "Great."

"You won't mind, I'm sure." Mello watches as the hacker brings up the basic system information, gauging simple things in order to estimate the power at his disposal. Shining cases and pretty looks are one thing, but Matt wants to know about the raw muscle packed into each of the gleaming silver boxes.

"I don't get it," Matt says aloud, racing his eyes along the network. "You've got this much disposable cash?"

"A lot of it's from Wammy."

"The House sent you this stuff?"

"They give it to everyone, Matt. A certain allowance based on…you didn't get anything?"

It's not a question, though the incredulity is there. "Not a penny," Matt says, and he turns to look at his onetime ally.

"Interesting," Mello says, and Matt inclines his head.

"Quite."

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Mello spells out the rules. Matt is to sleep on the couch; he has to get his own food; he has to shower at least once every other day; smoking indoors is forbidden. He listens for a while, and then it just kind of turns into a dull monotony of rules, and his eyes glaze over.

Finally, the blonde leaves, and Matt's alone again.

Being here, in this situation…it's eerie, and Matt doesn't like it. He doesn't like Mello's jackal-eyed gaze or his predatory grin; he doesn't like Mello's cool indifference to his existence or his blatant manipulation. He could kill himself right now, just for the self-crime of allowing Mello to see him at a low.

Moreover, he doesn't really understand  _why_  he responded to the fire like he had. Matt's not generally the type to spook over something as simple as, say, watching his life go up in flames…

And that's when he finally feels the cold steel of reality break through his wooden skull, because it hits him—his apartment  _had_  contained his life. At sixteen, he's not exactly rich, and his system had been a labor of love perfected over half a decade of tinkering. It's gone. So much metal and silicon and electric impulses, ignited and cast over the smoldering city in so many handfuls of ash—dispersed, never to be seen again.

When all is said and done, electronic are all that Matt  _has_. They're the only things keeping him tethered to reality, the only things keeping him from descending in a still-steeper spiral downward into the depths of his self-made hell. And isn't that a sad realization? Matt's nothing more than a mobile computer, engineered for functionality and little else, and in the end, if he were to die—would it mean anything?

Nobody's managed to figure out what happens to the body when it dies. The electric flow of brain activity ceases, and from there, the cells come unknit, one by one and two by two, until all that's left is a mound of reeking dirt.

He's just in a mood. Carefully, trying not to stumble over his leaden feet, Matt makes his way to the still-open computer room (closet?) and starts up one of them. Travis is recording the screens, supposedly, but Matt's not doing anything  _bad_  just yet. He just needs to get his hands on his own money; the whole problem with living under an alias is that he needs an ID in order to get at his accounts, and he can't exactly walk into a government office to ask for one. Matt doesn't exist. Mail might not have had this problem, but he's long since dead.

Slowly, the sensation of humming machinery beneath his fingertips buzzes through his arms and to the base of his spine, and he allows himself to forget.

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Eventually, Matt falls asleep at the keyboard, with the too-hot air from the computer whispering through his damp hair. Mello finds him like that when he returns at nine in the morning; he tosses a pack of cigarettes and a lighter next to the hacker and locks himself in the bedroom.

When Matt wakes up, he blinks blearily at the cigarettes, and then the red-hot reality of addiction sends his brain clamoring. Out he goes into the deserted stairwell, and the tiny flame glows yellow. The paper catches, and nicotine surges into his bloodstream like a punch to the gut.

He falls back asleep, just like that, with his head tilted back against the stone wall and his eyes rolled back into his head with sheer relief.

In that fleeting second of half-conscious thought, it occurs to him that it's probably a good thing that he's never tried anything stronger.

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"I hope you don't make a habit of sleeping so much," Mello remarks.

Matt blinks and stares upwards at the blonde giant. "What?"

Mello towers over him, and it takes a moment for his brain to realize that the immense height difference is due to the stairwell. He grimaces and rubs his eyes; his mouth tastes like ash. "Sorry."

The blonde shrugs. "Just a warning. You didn't waste any time with the cigarettes."

"Shut up." Matt presses a palm against the wall and lurches to his feet, bringing them somewhat closer to eye level. "What time is it?"

"Half past six. At night, that is." Mello watches him with critical eyes. "What  _happened_  to you, anyway?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Mello turns away and opens the door. He steps half-inside and holds it ajar with one knee-height boot. "Come on. I want to talk to you." Before Matt can say anything, he lets the door slide closed, and Matt's left staring at the brass-plated number: Thirteen.

With a grimace, he scales the stairs and pulls open the door. He follows Mello into the kitchen and watches as the older boy pours himself a Coke.

"A bit tame for you, don't you think?"

Mello catches his eyes and grins. "I need caffeine. We've got a long night ahead of us."

"Have we?"

"Yeah." Mello nods to the barstool. "Sit."

Matt sits. The kitchen is as impeccably high-end as the rest of the apartment; there's granite everywhere. The island where Matt is currently sitting is one solid slab. It's a distinctly American style, contemporary, and he's again struck by the suspicion that Mello hasn't changed a thing about the place since he bought it. Rented. Whichever.

Mello shoves a glass of Coke at him and takes up residence on an opposing stool as the hacker gingerly wraps his hands around the cool drink. His eyes are bland, sharp; he's hiding behind the icy mask as much as ever, and it irritates Matt.

He really doesn't feel like waiting to be ordered around, so he takes the initiative. "Mello," he says, "I presume that you're not bugged?"

Mello frowns. "Correct," he says. "Idiot question, though."

"Good." Matt examines the dark cola for a moment before taking a swig; the rich taste of sugary carbonation rushes down his throat as he swallows. "I've got a question, then. Why the hell are you in touch with the Mafia?"

The other grins immediately, barely skipping a beat. They've both been trained in the art of lying, and, naturally, truth-seeking; Mello knows better than to allow the instinctive seizing of his facial muscles. Matt has to give him some credit—the smile looks genuine. "And how," Mello asks, "do you figure that?"

"Simple." Matt sets his drink down. "You didn't lock up the computer room, remember? I guess it turns out that you found a workaround to Travis's security without my help, because I found traces of contact on your system." He grins. "Don't worry, of course. I was running a specialized Linux distro—Travis hasn't bothered packing in multiplatform support for his little spybot, which marks him as an idiot. Long story made short, I found my evidence, and if Travis finds a blind spot, it'll just look like you shut the computer off."

Mello's finger's drum against the granite. They're one of the few uncovered parts of his body; the black leather has  _got_  to be ridiculously hot in this climate, and Matt wonders once again about his friend's sanity. "Interesting," Mello says. His grin widens. "I guess you'll just have to figure out my game on your own. It shouldn't be too hard, for you."

Matt looks at him thoughtfully. "You did this for a reason."

"Did what?"

"Took me in." He sighs and toys with the strap of his goggles—they're still hanging around his neck. "I'd be willing to bet that you're the one who burnt my place."

Mello shakes his head. "I'm not an arsonist."

"Not that it matters, anyway." Matt drops his hands from his goggles and meets Mello's eyes. "I'll help you, since I don't seem to have a choice in the matter, but you'll only get as good as you give, Mel. Same as old times—you can't use me and not expect to give me perks in return, got it?"

"This is building up to something," Mello says, addressing the ceiling. "He'd make a really bad actor. After all, his intentions—"

"I want a system," Matt interrupts. "A system for  _me_. I don't care if you lock me out of that computer room, but you're getting me a laptop. We'll go from there. I don't know if I...can replace what burned, but I'll try." His hands lie folded neatly on the countertop, but the white knuckles betray him. "And I'm not a tool."

"Never said you were," Mello replies, and Matt shrugs.

"It doesn't matter, like I said," he informs him. "You'll treat me like one, whether you mean to or not. And don't bother with dancing around the subject."

"Agreed on both counts," Mello says. "I'll get you a laptop. Oh, and by the way—we're meeting Travis tonight."

Just like that. It's not a question, or even a suggestion. There's no other way to phrase it: Matt's been issued an order. A directive. A mandate.

There aren't any satin bows to be tied around this situation. He can't continue to wrap his life in the insulation of colored paper: there's no disguising it. The box has been unwrapped, the decorations laid aside, and the promised present doesn't meet anyone's expectations.

Every human is doomed to be a shadow on the wind, a breath of dust passing into the eternal void of the universe. Matt, he's just doomed to be a shadow, and maybe that's the better fate.

It's not that bad, though. And he's got a pledge of truthfulness, which is worth something.

He finishes the Coke.


	5. Chapter 5

The meeting with Travis is a laugh.

They sit down in the common room, the four of them—Matt and Mello and Travis, of course, and one of Travis's cronies. The unnamed one has peppered hair and a placid demeanor that renders him out of place amidst the gritty atmosphere. He stands behind his employer, arms folded comfortably behind his back. The others sit.

At night, in this season, the ceiling fans aren't needed—in fact, it's  _cold_. Matt fights the urge to shrink into his vest, letting the goosebumps wash over his skin. The warehouse isn't really insulated.

"So," Travis says, seizing the opportunity to speak first. "Matt. I take it that John has filled you in on my proposition?"

"No, he hasn't," Matt replies, allowing a note of curiosity to creep into his tone. He keeps his eyes trained on Travis's face, not staring, just meeting the other's gaze, determined  _not_  to look at Mello. "I didn't know there  _was_  a proposition, actually—this isn't just another job?"

The question ends innocently. "No, actually, it's not," Travis says. He folds his hands on his knee. "I was wondering if you would consider…coming onboard here. Exclusively."

Matt leans back thoughtfully. "Really."

"Yes. I need a hacker, Matt, and you seem to be a natural choice, given your previous work—mind you, I have a few other possible candidates who are just as qualified, but John seems to think that you're a good pick."

Matt tries not to laugh—not only is the man's kindly attitude as plausible as a space elevator, but hearing Mello referred to as John is just plain weird. The lines of baby fat on Travis's face crease with earnestness. "So." His lips split into a grin, allowing the whites of his teeth to flash in the dim lighting. "What do you say?"

Next to him, Mello's muscles are unusually lax. Matt takes his cue from that. After all, if what he found earlier is any indication, neither of them will be here for long.

"Sure thing," he says, allowing himself to match Travis's grin. "You have any specific terms?"

They talk for a while, discussing specifics—Matt's computer setup, salary, the kinds of jobs he'll be doing. Mello joins in the conversation, fluidly interjecting and supporting Travis's statements in a low, murky voice. His manner is smooth and courteous—reminiscent of a junior salesman, assisting his superior in the persuasion of a client.

Not that Matt really needs  _persuading._  His curiosity has been piqued. What game is Mello playing? Outwardly, at least, he seems to be Travis's man, but—he's been in contact with the mafia. This doesn't make sense.

Or, rather, it makes too much sense. Mello's playing both ends against the middle, as usual.

They come to an agreement eventually. Matt's salary is settled—it's to be a cut of the profits from his operations—as is his allowance in computing equipment, though these are up to negotiation based on performance. Most interesting is Travis's inquiry as to his address.

"I have my own rooms," Matt says blandly. "I don't really need anything more than what I have."

"Yes, well," Travis says. "We like to know where everyone is, in case there's an emergency. Now, come on, Matt—it's simple enough. Where do you live?"

Matt flashes him a languid grin and sinks back into the sofa cushions. "Eh," he says. "Honestly, I really can't tell you. My housing situation is a bit…fluid."

"Oh," Travis says. "Yes. The fire."

Matt arches an eyebrow. "You knew?"

"Well, yes. John here told me. That's why we had him contact you." Travis gestures to the blonde, who nods and smiles faintly. It's funny how Mello has suddenly transformer from his irritable overlord to a dapper acquaintance. Matt returns the gesture.

So, then. That's the story—Mello's just the one who tracked him after he fell off the map for a few days. Travis doesn't know that they're currently living under the same roof.

Interesting.

"Yeah," he says. "I'll let you know once I find a permanent place, okay?"

Travis nods, and the conversation moves on.

Matt spends the whole time trying not to laugh: John Hannon is an expert fiddler, and he's plucking this man's strings with the wild abandon of a gypsy song.

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Mello stays behind to talk with Travis a bit, and he's shown into a side room. The pepper-haired man follows him and takes up a seat in one of the chairs. "So you're the infamous Matt Flanning," he says. There's a wry laugh packed into his words—not condescending or skeptical, but just amused.

"So I've heard," Matt says as he sits. He grins at the guy through his goggles. "Who might you be?"

"Patrick. I'm Travis's current computer freak."

Matt turns to look at him, surprised. "Sorry," Patrick says wearily, holding up his hands in mock defense. "I don't fit the stereotype, I know—and honestly, my work could be better, but we make do here."

This isn't the kind of conversation he's used to having. There isn't any bravado, any staking of territory—just acceptance. It's nice.

"It's good, working for Travis," Patrick says. "You'll like it, I think. It's a change of pace." He extends his hand and smiles, laugh lines crinkling like crow-feet around his eyes. "Welcome to the team. I look forward to working under you."

This guy is from another century—the formal ceding of authority is insane. Doesn't this guy have a survival instinct?

Matt laughs and accepts the offering. "Thanks," he says. For once, he means it, which is sad. The poor old man doesn't know that he's probably being double-crossed.

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"Thanks for accepting the job," Mello says, once they're back in the apartment. He starts rummaging in the cabinets for the instant coffee—it's avoiding him.

Matt watches apathetically. "Somehow I thought that wasn't an offer I should have refused."

"Really?" Mello finds the coffee—it's new. He peels the lid off and rips the foil safety seal open with his teeth, then spits it out onto the counter. "Why?"

"Well, I need a bit of direction in my life, don't I? And if I had refused—three against one isn't exactly a fair balance."

Mello snorts. "I thought you were freelance. Go where you want, do what you want—isn't that how you work, these days?" He pours the mixture into the coffee maker and flips the switch. "So much for your independence, if you're  _that_  easily intimidated."

He doesn't bristle, even if it's tempting to. Mello does, after all, have a point. "In that case, Mello, what are you?" Matt slides into the barstool and pulls his goggles off. His hair tangles as they slip over his head; without them, the world is that much brighter, that much starker. "Rumors are interesting things."

Mello turns around, only to find that he's actually looking into Matt's eyes for once, and not merely a pair of lens-shielded windows. His lip twitches. "And those rumors would be…?"

"Unimportant, of course," Matt returns. He hooks his ankles around the barstool and offers the other a lazy grin. "Think of me as a coward if you like, but least I'm pragmatic. Why are you bothering with all this? Double-crossing is such a messy business."

Mello's grin fades. "That's my business, not yours."

"Fine," Matt says. He fingers the strap of his goggles and regards Mello thoughtfully. "You're touchy about it, though."

"I have my rights."

"Is it going to get me into trouble?"

Mello shrugs. "Probably." Matt nods. He appreciates that much.

Funny. He's just found a colleague he can get along with, too.

They lapse into silence until the machine pings, and then Mello pours them each a mug: rich, brown coffee, full of caffeine and stimulants and sunshine, just the thing to mull over while they contemplate the days to come.

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Matt swings by the casino later. Travis has given him a small advance, which is nice, but he needs to grow it. The fastest way—naturally—is a few hands of blackjack. He starts small; after all, probability can only get you so far. By the time he leaves, though, he's got a comfortable weight resting in his wallet.

He comes back to the apartment to find Mello asleep on the couch, his cell phone dangling from his hand. It's funny, watching Mello like this. The tranquility doesn't suit him.

The blonde's eyes flicker open as Matt quietly lights a cigarette and begins to unload his haul. His nose wrinkles. "Matt?"

Mello's voice is a croak, hoarse with sleep, and the hacker in question crooks a grin. "You're alive, eh?"

"Yeah," he mutters. He rises onto his elbow and winces as the dim lighting hits his eyes. "What's this?"

"I was at the casino." Matt starts thumbing through the wad of bills, counting. "Remember my allowance? I think I doubled it."

Mello nods slowly, watching as the other sets aside stack after stack of cash. There must have been a shortage of large bills at the casino. "Is this all you do with your free time?"

Matt looks up, surprised by the accusatory tone. Apparently, someone really needed that nap. "What's  _that_  supposed to mean? It's a perfectly legitimate pastime, you know."

Mello just  _looks_  at him. Before Matt can respond, though, he's already sagging back into the sofa cushions, and his eyelids flutter at a pace to match his breathing.

The hacker snorts. Leave it to Mello to be obnoxious, even when he's flirting with exhaustion.

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The packet falls onto the kitchen counter.

"There."

Matt's fingers scramble to open it, fumbling along the edge of the envelope. The seal slices through his skin, drawing a thin line of blood from the pad of his index finger. He ignores it.

The contents spill out and are quickly gobbled up by his eager eyes: letters, certificates, laminated cards. He sifts through them with quick-brushing touches, ascertaining their validity before discarding each document in turn.

Finally, his breathing quiets. Matt looks up, the frantic haze dimming in his eyes. "Thank you, Mello."

Mello smiles, a thin-lipped, silent affair—and watches as Matt reverently pours the documents back into their envelope. Together, these hold the keys to his former identity. Mail Jeevas is dead, so doing anything above-ground requires a bit of finagling. In the envelope—a birth certificate, a driver's license, a diploma, and any other identity-proofs that he could ever need in order to assume his mask as Matt Flanning. Genius.

These are the keys to ordinary life.

The sunlight streams into the kitchen, glinting off the stainless steel and sending ripples through the glasses hanging around Matt's neck. It's unusual, for Mello to be at the apartment during the day; the room seems that much friendlier when bathed in actual light. It's good. Life is on the upswing.

Matt goes to tuck the manila envelope into his vest, but at the last second, it gets snatched away. Mello holds it clenched between his thumb and forefinger, dangling it tauntingly above Matt's head. "It's not that simple," he says, and laughs.

The smile on his lips has grown into a full-fledged smirk, tugging the skin upward in patterns of arrogance. Matt's own mouth tightens. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Can't say I am."

He pauses, processes those words, and then scowls. "What do you _want_?" he demands, irritation gracing his tone as the realization of extortion hits. The envelope swings lazily in the air above his head. Again, Mello is flaunting their difference in height.

Mello whisks the envelope out of the air and drops it cheerfully into his leather briefcase. It's an incongruous item for him to be carrying—it smacks vaguely of respectability. "Sorry," he says. "But I need to give you some incentive to work with me on this."

"Work with you…?"

"Oh, it's nothing much. Think of the documents as a…thank-you, with advance notice." Mello's grin stretches. "It's just going to be a bit difficult."

If anything scares him, it's Mello's eyes. When he's like this—there's that aching burn smoldering beneath the blue, hungry and feral, and he has the distinct feeling that Mel enjoys the cat-and-mouse game a bit too much for his own safety.

"I'm not exactly flattered," Matt mutters. "I said I'd work for you already, didn't I?"

"Pardon me for not trusting you."

Matt shrugs, and Mello laughs. "All right," he says. "Fine. Come with me. This is off the books."

1010101010101010101010101

There's a beat-up Honda parked outside the apartment complex when they pull up. Mello swings out the door before Matt can fumble for his seatbelt clasp. His voice rings out into the empty air. "I'm here," he says, his voice distinctly bored. "I brought my friend along, if that's all right."

The windows of the old Honda roll down slowly—they're hand-crank. Matt climbs slowly from the car just as an unknown voice responds cheerfully to Mello's call. "Get your ass over here, Hannon."

The Honda's inhabitant is a smooth-faced man with black hair curling thickly from his temples—an Italian. He can't be much older than his mid-twenties, which still gives him a good decade or so on them, but still: it could be worse. This kid isn't as established as he could be.

"Off the books." This is the Mafia. Mello is digging himself in.

Mello makes his way over to the car, Matt tailing him cautiously, and bends down, the better to talk. "Everything set up?"

"Yeah. Your friend's got to be blindfolded, though. You know how it goes."

Matt sighs and wishes, spitefully, that he could have a cigarette, but that would be  _rude._  He's handled touchy jobs before, here, where his  _hosts_  expected him to move and act with ignorance, and they usually come through. Usually. Except for that one time—

"It's fine," Mello says. "Can I have it?"

The man passes a scrap of cloth to the blonde, who turns to face him. "Close your eyes."

Matt rolls his eyes, turns his back to Mello, and waits. The cloth fits snugly over his skin—not too tight to be uncomfortable, but definitely secure. They've both had brief training in knotwork, and he recognizes enough of the movements to know that this one isn't likely to slip.

To his surprise, Mello also grips his wrists and secures them behind his back with a pair of cuffs. He hadn't expected something quite this…sophisticated. The metal bites.

The car ride is monotonous. He sits in a quiet void in the backseat while Mello and the guy ride in silence. It's easy enough to keep himself company, though. He lets his thoughts ricochet off his skull, bouncing idly in the mute darkness until gravity pulls them to a slow stop. Sometimes it's nice to think.

Finally, they stop. A rough hand grips his shoulder—whose it is, he can't guess. He stumbles out the door. Up a flight of stairs—forty-one steps. Down a narrow space: a hall. Down twenty-six steps. Left, for three minutes, and then a right, then another right, and a left again. He loses track.

Eventually, the air pressure lets up—they're no longer in a hallway, but in a room. Someone shoves him into a chair. A set of fingers grips the blindfold, and he feels the cool press of metal slice through the cloth. It parts; he blinks. The lights are on.

They're in a cozy apartment, furnished with rich wood and leather the color of blood-soaked mahogany. The curtains—drapes, really, dripping with the weight of emerald coloring—are tied shut. He's not to guess his location, apparently.

Mello, scissors in hand, drops into a chair next to him and leans back, allowing his fingertips to graze the armrests. He doesn't look at Matt. The man who picked them up is nowhere to be seen, until he reenters the room ten seconds later cradling three beers in his left hand. He tosses one to Mello, and then eyes Matt critically. "Oh," he says, a wry smile flitting across his face. "Sorry, mate. We can't uncuff you just yet. No hard feelings, yeah?"

He laughs; Matt doesn't. This guy radiates too much confidence.

He wears a loose dress shirt over slacks, and his hair is just… _oily_. He smacks of some well-to-do office worker—the kind of guy who would be the taskmaster of a horde of cubicle slaves.

"Are the others running late?" Mello asks. He takes a swig of the beer, and Matt grits his teeth. Handcuffs!

"Yeah." The guy sighs and checks his watch. It's a glossy affair, with silver links and a fat analog display. "It's only two minutes into the timetable, though. I think they were planning on doing some extra prep."

Mello nods, then turns to Matt. "I'll explain once we're all here," he says casually. "We just need you to disable an alarm system. Sound easy enough?"

Matt shrugs as well as he can. "Sure."

He can see the curiosity lacing the guy's eyes. He probably looks like a random schmuk: bloated sci-fi goggles, mime's shirt, nondescript jeans. It's not a very…encouraging…ensemble.

Hell with first impressions. He's dealt with this before.

The guys arrive ten minutes later. They're a mixed bunch—four unremarkable Italians, a well-muscled black guy, a wiry white kid with a southern drawl. Their silent skepticism matches the first guy's. Mello catches it, too, and exchanges a flashed smile with Matt.

One of the Italians starts apologizing as soon as they walk in the door. "We're running late," he announces unnecessarily. "Sorry. Had to take care of a few things—his whore of a daughter was bitching about being told to stay away from Daddy's place. I told her it just wasn't  _safe_ , you know? That she's had threats. There's trouble brewing, after all."

Matt doesn't know who "he" is, the father, but the others start laughing. Apparently something's funny.

"Don't be late next time," Mello orders, and the laughing cuts off, replaced by an air of brusque business. "Now. Andrews, the laptop…?"

The original guy—Andrews—flits into the hall and comes back carrying a laptop. He unwinds the power cable in quick loops. Mello continues talking. "Now," he says. "You guys remember, right? In and out, real quick. I've got the sedative on me."

"Seems like a goddamned waste of time, to me," one of the Italians complains. "Why aren't we allowed to just dump him?"

"Stupid," Mello—and Matt—say aloud at the same time. Everyone stops and looks at Matt. He hadn't meant to say that out loud—heck, he hadn't done much more than mutter it—but nothing goes unnoticed here, apparently.

Mello raises an eyebrow. "Be my guest," he says, and bows from the waist. "Next fish is mine, though."

 _Fish._  It's a reference back to the days when they would be pitted against each other in teamed debates. The two of them thrashed Near's team that year—mostly because the albino never did learn how to use others to his advantage. Animal analogies were their code.

"All right," Matt says, keenly aware of the eyes on him. He shrugs and begins reciting, listing his observations as if reeling off the capitals of the world. "You're being awfully transparent. You're taking some guy out—going to his house to do it, too, but you're not supposed to cull him, hence the sedative." Matt laughs. "I'm operating on the assumption that, seeing as you had the chance to talk to his daughter, and you managed to convince her, he's someone who moves in a circle that's relatively close to your own, or at least partially entangled with it."

"Assumptions," Mello says. "Magpies."

"Corvids find the shinies, though," Matt shoots back. The others exchange bemused glances. " _Anyway,_ " he continues firmly, "that's enough to give me a sketch. I don't know  _what_  you're up to, exactly"—this is kind of the truth; all he has are conjectures—"but I do know that yours is a delicate world. I've barely broken the surface of it myself, and this is out of my league, as you would think of it,  _but._ " He pauses for effect. "Basic crowd psychology. You kill him, then he's a martyr, a victim, an insult. He disappears, and his credit card gets tracked in some other town? He's a skipper. A traitor. It's all about PR."

Andrews looks at Mello. "You trust this kid?"

"Not really," Mello drawls, "and he doesn't trust me. But he's fine. If he wants to blow us up, he will, but knowing him, he'd probably give us fair notice."

Andrews looks unsettled. "I'll take the cuffs off, then. Somehow I don't think that they'd be much of a help."

Matt clamps his mouth shut and wishes that he had never opened it to begin with.

Mello surveys the room. "Any  _more_ objections to the plan?" His words drip ice.

The southwestern guy pipes up. "Security system."

"His domain," Mello says, waving at Matt. Andrews is bending over to undo his handcuffs. "Trust me. You have the IP?" Mello's starting to get annoyed, Matt can tell. It's subtle, but—it's there. He's restraining himself.

The other nods. "Yeah. We only got a toehold in his system, but—"

"Chances are that he'd rather start from scratch, anyway." Mello slips his phone from his pocket and checks the time. "We've wasted enough, I think. Matt—don't do anything idiotic. The guy's system is rigged to explosives in his house. Andrews is staying with you."

The handcuffs jangle as Andrews pulls them loose. Matt salutes.  _Explosives._  Doesn't that sound familiar? He hasn't gotten a chance to wire Mello's place yet. "Will do."

Andrews remains mute. He looks worried.

They leave. Matt brings his right leg over his knee and pries off the boot. Inside, he unzips a side pouch and withdraws a flash drive. His caretaker looks alarmed. "You're not supposed to have—"

"I need it," Matt says flatly. He presses the bridge of his goggles into his skin, feeling the cool plastic sink its imprint into the malleable flesh. "Don't argue." The drive whirs as he plugs it in. "I'm disabling a security system, correct?"

A pause, and then: "Correct."

"How long do I have?"

Andrews frowns. "Twenty minutes, give or take."

He doesn't like 'give or take.' That means ten.

Leave it to Mello to make his first job something on such a narrow timeframe.

Matt falls silent and gets to work. He has a handful of programs tailored for precisely this kind of job—worming inside of systems under time constraints, sorting through the messes and the nulls and the red herrings, figuring out the quickest way to shut down an actively aggressive system. Andrews feeds him the IP, and he runs with it.

(There has always been something beautiful about simple hacking. It's a puzzle—a jigsaw—a slider-block—the kind of thing that is reminiscent of tinkering with an armed bomb in order to make it behave  _just so._  He loves it.)

Andrews paces around the apartment, sipping his beer while he watches Matt work. That bugs him—these programs aren't something that he'd like to be replicated. Then again, the odds that Andrews can actually interpret the screen are slim to none. Matt has an infinite amount of disdain for bourgeoisie dabblers. There's a place for them, sure, in  _fueling the economy_ , but they shouldn't be messing around here.

He finishes the job in twelve minutes and fourteen seconds with a minor sense of disappointment. That took him too long. Some of the roundabouts were unexpected, sure, and he had never seen  _that_  sort of firewall, but—

He recorded the endeavor. He'll have to play it back. Whoever this was, they were rusty, but they had had some good ideas. It's a pity.

"You're clear," he says to Andrews, who nods a bit, sweats a bit. He pulls out his cell phone.

"Hello?"

Matt opens up his recording and starts watching, taking note of the delicate details in the security system that he's just finished dismantling. He might as well do something productive.

1010101010101010101010101010101

Mello claps him on the shoulder as they drive home. He had to wear the blindfold for the ride back to their car, but no handcuffs. Mello seems in a good mood; everyone else had just seemed to be relieved. Except for Andrews.

"Nicely done," he says now. "Your documents are in my briefcase. We cleaned that up pretty well—without the system to worry about, it was easy."

Matt laughs and takes another drag of his cigarette. "I'm sure it wasn't  _that_  simple, Mel."

"Oh, not at all. Life is relative." Mello grins, his eyes resting lazily on the road. "And we've got the whole day ahead of us."

Matt exhales and watches the smoke rise. "Mm." He learned a lot, just then, from a twelve-minute destruction of a faceless guy's life. There's a lot of things he wants to add to his toolbox, and a lot of things he wants to edit in his own system.

It's been a while, since they've done something like this. Partners in crime—it's no longer an idiom.

He still misses his freedom.

1010101010101010101010101010101

That night, they stop by Travis's warehouse—they've been summoned. He's furious.

"Patrick's gone missing," he barks. "I can't find him anywhere. Katie—his daughter—said that she missed their appointment for lunch, and nobody's seen him all day."

Patrick. The pepper-haired half-hacker—who, while rusty with his upkeep, had had a few brilliant insights. Creativity. Matt could have learned a lot from him, even if he was an old-fashioned coot.

Matt grinds his cigarette under his heel. "Haven't seen him," he says.

Mello shrugs. "The same."

He wonders what happened to the guy. He's not dead.

Not yet, anyway.

When they get home, Matt lays his newly retrieved papers out on the coffee table and stares at them. Driver's license. Birth certificate. Diploma. One person's technical existence, traded for another's.


	6. Chapter 6

Here is what Matt knows:

1\. He has an identity.

2\. He has a roof over his head.

3\. He has a job.

4\. He has played, however unintentionally, a role in a man's abduction.

He hasn't had a cigarette in…well, in a while. He has forced himself  _not_  to keep track; doing so only distracts him. There's a pack lying right next to him—on the coffee table, in fact—but he hasn't touched it. Every time he reaches for it, his fingers curl back in reluctance, and he gives up.

"Look," he says, addressing the ceiling. The carpet rubs against his back. "Look. I didn't…I don't care. I can't. Okay?"

The ceiling doesn't judge him, but he keeps defending himself anyway. Funny thing, the human brain.

"I've pretty much been just…going along, with everything, and this isn't anything different, is it? Taking what life hands me. Fuck.  _He_  never gave me any other choice, did he?"

Trying never gets you anywhere. He had learned that years ago, the hard way, when they were told that  _Mello_  and  _Near_  had been chosen—elevated—hand-picked—not for their abilities, though those were considered, but for their  _apathy._  Apathy!

"I mean, it's not like I was doing anything wrong. Hacking around. It's the bloke's fault, isn't it? They would have gotten him, with or without me. They wanted him."

A handshake; a stubble-lined grin. Memories of a five-minute interaction with a mediocre worker, a guy content with his lot. Content. There's something that's hard to find.

"I'm sorry, I guess, but it's not like I marked him myself." So much for apologies.

Other memories slither to the surface: a computer, microphone, a room. A letter, scrawled in Gothic script on the screen. Roger, standing behind the trolley, a silent medium; the other children, scattered throughout the room, hanging off of furniture and draped across the floor, their energy buzzing from chattering mouths. And a younger self— _himself_ —abandoning his video games, for once, in favor of latching on to every mechanized, distorted word, listening, enthralled by the non-voice of  _L._ Questions, coming to his lips, sprouting, bursting forth, unexpected but oh-so-needed. The answers.

"Mello would have done it without me, you know?" The ceiling has no answers for that, either. "Yeah."

Here's the trick: the Q&A session had been so, so much more than that. It had all been a grand hoax, beautiful and elaborate and revolting, like the sickly-sweet smell of rotting meat. It had been announced, at the House, that L was holding an audio-conference, and that they were  _free to ask any questions that they liked._  They had all jumped at the opportunity.

Except, Mello and Near had been the only two who  _hadn't_  asked questions. They hadn't  _cared_  about L. Their struggles were personal, with themselves alone, not with a nonentity floating in cyberspace. Irony of ironies—L had chosen them precisely because of that indifference.

Oh, it had  _stung._

"When all is said and done, he was doomed from the beginning, wasn't he? I guess that he was just…cast from the wrong mold. Stuck in the wrong era. He was too…" Too what? Considerate? Unthreatening? Safe?

After the audio conference, after the announcement…Mello's sudden transformation.  _Both_  of their transformations. Near had retained his apathy, but Matt and Mello had switched. Mello had risen to the occasion, just as expected; he lunged for the star, now that the House had dangled it soveryvery close. Always the pragmatist: he would only shoot for realistic goals, but once he did…

Matt, on the other hand…

…why is he remembering these things?

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he is, once again, second to Mello in the hierarchy. Damn it all. How did he manage to get caught up in another ranking system?

He had forgiven Mello, eventually. Petty rivalries aren't something to be concerned about, when all is said and done.

Maybe the guilt twisting in his gut has less to do with Patrick, and more to do with Mello. That's an awful thought. He's never been religious, really, not in the conventional sense. He recognizes that God is a human construct, which negates ordinary religion, but…there's a certain appeal to it. The notion of morality does have a function in society, after all, and he has to respect the guys who were clever enough to organize that chaos of humanity into a creed. So, yeah, the blatant immorality of not-caring in the face of Patrick's kidnapping…his soon-to-be murder…is…well, it's a bit guilt-inducing. Cycles of guilt.

 _What the hell_  is the phrase of the times. He rolls off the floor, onto his feet, and snatches a cigarette from the pack. Too much guilt in a day is bad for you—you know? As usual, though, the pristine ceiling paint has no answers, and he lights up with a shrug.

God, that smoke tastes good.

10101010101010101010101010101010101010

He takes a walk.

Well, that's not quite accurate. He takes a walk down the street, and up another one, and left at Corner A and right at Corner B, until he's sufficiently far enough from their apartment, and then he catches a cab. The driver is a smooth-faced old man who's got to be in his seventies. "Where to?" he asks, as bright and perky as any preteen, smiling through a checkerboard of missing teeth.

Matt pulls his goggles over his face as he steps in and dictates the address. The cabbie nods, ignoring the oddity of the request; not everyone needs ferrying around the strip, after all, which is why he was passing through here in the first place.

The guy drops him off a few streets away from his real destination, and Matt starts walking again. It doesn't take him long to reach the ruined husk of his apartment building. It hasn't been that long—a week or two, maybe?—and a developer has yet to get his hands on the lots. The lots are the only useful remnants of the former inhabitants, but they're off limits until the police figure out the cause of the fire.  _A kitchen accident? Faulty electrical wiring? Arson?_ They don't know yet. The air still smells like ash, and he stares up at the burnt walls silently.

This blackened post, here? This was the main doorframe. Here's the landlord's old room, not much more than a blank expanse of floor exposed by the missing walls. Look at that, there's the fire escape, the one he had scrambled down that night—it's here still, charred and soot-streaked, twisting into the air like a deformed ladder to nowhere. The landing that it had once connected to is gone, and it spirals desolately into nothingness before petering out, scraping the gray surface of the sky.

He doesn't take out his cigarettes. There's enough smoke in the air without him contributing to it.

_This wasn't random._

Come to think of it, nothing has seemed particularly  _random_  lately. He can't quite put his finger on it, but something's definitely not right. His accidental meeting with Mello at Travis's den, being followed, the sudden destruction of his new apartment, the oh-so-very-odd circumstances by which he has come to be living with Mello. All of it is too weird.

It hasn't been all that long since he ran away from Wammy House. Sure, he's managed to find his way into a couple of scrapes, but nothing  _serious._  Despite the rigidity of society's faith in itself, it's surprisingly easy to disappear; the intense vigilance of the police only works when you actually exist. So much for the Big Brother state. Mail Jeevas was erased a long time ago. By extension, then, by connecting the metaphorical dots, it's plain to see that there is a very, very small group of people who could be actively trying to manipulate his life.

He could count the names on his fingers, actually. Roger. Mello. Near. The other children? Maybe. Most of them are still House-bound, and they would need motivators—

—then again, Roger and Near and Mello would all need motivators, too. Except…Mello would be the type to fuck with Matt's head, just for the fun of it. They both get bored too easily.

"So why are you still here?" he asks the husk of the apartment building. "It would be easy enough to up and leave. Vanish, like you've done before." That's a lie. He can't vanish, any more than he can stop playing the game, because despite the languor that he had immersed himself in during his last years at the House, Matt was never one for just  _giving up._

"The last time I checked," a voice says from behind him, "buildings—even ones that are scheduled for demolition—don't 'leave.' This one will be gone within a few weeks, though."

He barely blinks, retaining enough mental control to analyze the situation. It's a feminine voice, soft and strong and so very different in pitch than the sounds he has become accustomed to. The speaker, whoever she is, has been watching him. Great.

He turns around, raising an eyebrow from behind his goggles. A curly-haired brunette looks back at him, a ghost of a smile hovering delicately over her lips. She's dressed casually, in a loose-fitting blouse and jeans, but there's something about her that screams that it's wrong. She looks—she looks like she should be in business attire and striding about in a pair of heels, not walking around with partially smudged eyeshadow and a sketchbook under her arm. She has too much poise. Matt smells a lie.

Her smile broadens. "Amanda," she says, extending her hand.

Matt takes it, kind of, touching his fingers to hers in a lazy hello. "Joey," he says, picking a name out of a hat. "Any reason why you're listening to a crazy loon talking to himself in front of a burned-down building?" He tosses in a lopsided smile for good measure as he returns his hand to his pocket. He can play the role of eccentric, sociable college kid well enough.

She laughs. Matt notes the utter absence of wrinkles around her eyes and the faint beginnings of creases on her forehead. She looks like she's—twenty-six, twenty-seven, if he had to guess, but that could be the effect of cosmetics. Regardless: she doesn't laugh much. "Not really, no," she says. Her voice is light, and she can almost pull off the carefree attitude, but again—it just doesn't fit, for reasons that Matt can't quite pinpoint. "I came here to draw."

"You're an artist?" The obligatory question.

"Oh—well, not really. I'm a student. This is more of a hobby than anything else. I go to med school."

He nods vaguely. "You thought it would be fun to sketch out the wreckage of someone else's home? Isn't that a weird habit, for someone who wants to be a doctor?"

She blinks, taken aback, and he starts walking away.

He  _hates_  it when people interrupt his thoughts, and this girl is no exception. He'd rather put up with the emptiness of the apartment than with dealing with  _her_  and her plastic babbling while staring at the remains of his apartment. The strip is a long way from here by foot, but he'll be walking. The last thing he wants to do is to pick up a tail again—the old one had lost him once he moved in with Mello.

He doesn't hear footsteps for a while, behind him, but then she starts walking—the other way, thank god.

Nothing makes much sense any more.

101010101010101010101010101010101010101

Mello is giving him space. Either that, or he doesn't want to deal with Matt's  _inner dramatics._

Matt raids the pantry, searching for something simple. He doesn't have to look far; neither of them is much of a cook. There's a giant stash of instant ramen, and he grabs a random one without looking and rips it open, then slams it into the microwave.

He's never been one for complications. That's why he likes ramen. It's got one ingredient, one step, takes three minutes to make, and it's  _good_. End of story.

The fork clinks quietly against the bowl. He doesn't eat noodles with a spoon—that really defeats the point, doesn't it? The fork. The air conditioning. His breathing. The apartment is too bloody quiet, and he doesn't like that, either.

By the time Mello gets back, he's still sitting at the kitchen island, tracing patterns on the granite with his eyes. The blonde dumps his leather briefcase by the door. "You're here."

"Yeah," Matt says, still staring at his now-empty bowl. "Where else would I be?" Oops. He hadn't meant to let the anger seep into his voice that quickly.

"It's not like I'm keeping you chained here," Mello replies mildly. He crosses the room and glances at Matt's bowl. "Ramen?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Sounds good." Mello grimaces and pinches the back of his neck with a gloved hand. "It's good to be out of there."

Matt glances up dully. "Where?"

"I was at Andrews's place, settling a bet. We won, by the way." He fishes a pot out of the cupboard. "That was what last night was over."

"A bet?" Matt repeats, not sure that he's hearing correctly.

"A bet," Mello confirms as he flips the faucet on. "Over your aptitude, to be precise, and your willingness to work from limited information. I did tell them not to expect you to be a gofer, mind you."

"Well, thanks for that. And the microwave is faster, you know."

"Yeah, but I like mine cooked properly." The blonde turns the burner on, peering into the pot to make sure that the water level is sufficient. "Microwaved ramen is just okay."

Matt sighs and presses his forehead with his fingertips. "Mello, we need to talk."

The other pauses, then takes off his gloves and sets them carefully to the side before turning around. "I was expecting you to say that, actually."

Mello's eyes are broad and clear, like the sky on a cloudless day; still, Matt gets the feeling that there's a shadow of a storm lurking just beyond the horizon. It's possible to get struck by lightning from a distant system, even if you can't see the clouds yet. Static electricity is pretty amazing like that.

"You're mad at me," Mello says now, eyeing him critically. He leans against the edge of the stove, facing Matt. "Mad at yourself, too, probably. Am I right?"

Matt meets his gaze. "You know everything, don't you?"

"No," he says calmly. "I don't."

Matt takes off the goggles and lets them hang around his neck. They scrape skin as the pass over his nose; without them, Mello's eyes are that much sharper, that much clearer. "Why Patrick?" he asks finally. "Why the Mafia? Why bother worming your way into Travis's favor when you've got your buddies over there? For that matter—why bother with this world at all, Mel? What's so bad about doing things  _L's_  way?" There it is, again: their roots are just something that can't be overcome. "That's all you wanted, right? To be L? Hell of a way to do it. L was supposed to be justice personified. Don't tell me that Patrick was a  _threat._ "

"Don't tell  _me_  that I'm not living up to L's standards," Mello says. His voice is cool. Level. Matt isn't fooled. "L would do what needs to be done, Matt, and he  _always_  did things his own way. Patrick wasn't a threat; don't be an idiot. He was an obstacle to an opportunity, that's all." His voice slips still lower. "And  _you're_  one to talk about L, anyway. What the hell have you been doing since you left Wammy House? Stalking me? Committing petty crimes for your clients?  _Card counting?_  What good is  _that_?"

Matt glares. "I've—" he begins, then stops short. Well, it's true, isn't it?

"I wasn't the bloody chosen one," he replies, ice drenching his words now, because this is true. "Roger would have had you and Near continue  _his_  work, sure, but me? I would've been stuck in that same training program, learning the how-to's of living life as just another Joe. What good would that have done?"

He stands up, reasserts control over his own tongue. "Look. I can see your train of thought. Nobody has yet managed to hunt down Kira, but Kira hunts down criminals. You're looking to draw  _him_  to  _you_ , eventually. And I can respect you for thinking ahead of Near, in that regard." He exhales slowly. "But—Mel, you don't need me for this. You never have. Thanks for trying to bring me back in again, but you don't need me, and I don't need you, either. We never did, remember? I don't want a part in this."

Mello has been listening, considering Matt's words, weighing them, balancing them out like an analyst examining counterfeit coins. The ramen cooking on the stove is forgotten, along with his former satisfaction with being back at the apartment. "No," he says.

This is Mello, Matt reminds himself. Or, rather, this is who Mello has become. This is the guy who can strut around Vegas wearing skintight leather and simultaneously win over respect from the Mafia, the boy who is used to manipulating those around him like some sort of demonic puppeteer.

That doesn't stop his flat denial from being insulting. Mello doesn't have a say in what he does—or at least, he shouldn't. Matt likes to think that he's under his own control.

"You're wrong," Mello says. "Here's the thing, Matt—I could manage without you, yeah, and you can manage without my help well enough, or so you say. The fact remains, though, that once I left Wammy House, you did, too."

"And it was a mistake, obviously," Matt says dryly. "I was just fine on my own, here—until my apartment  _burned down_ , at any rate."

"And I've already told you, that wasn't me. If you couldn't handle a simple  _accident,_  however unfortunate…" Mello shrugs. "Are you so sure you can handle  _life_ , Matt?" He doesn't give the other a chance to answer. "Look. We're both perfectly competent, separately, as I said earlier, but—I need you to work with me on this. I  _need_  to catch Kira, and I'll be able to do it faster with your help."

Matt starts laughing.

He can't help it. Mello stands there, arms folded over his chest, watching as Matt leans over the island and  _laughs_. The hacker's mouth splits wide open, like skin peeling away from an open wound, and he tries and fails to stifle the shivers racking his spine. "Oh, that's a good one," he says. "That's a bloody good one, Mel." He grins. "What's so damned special about what you're planning, anyway?"

"You still haven't guessed?" Is that a sneer creeping along Mello's mouth, or is he imagining things? No, he's not; scorn is clearly visible in those twin blue irises, along with…something else.

"Nope," Matt says lightly, sarcasm oozing from his voice. "I haven't. As it is, I don't think I'll be guessing any time soon, anyway. Too much effort." He's already on his feet; all that's left is to grab his wallet. "I'm going to waste some time on the strip. Sound all right?"

It's not like he needs Mello's permission. The blonde doesn't get a chance to answer before Matt is gone, out the door and down the street, looking to hail a cab.

It's only then that Mello realizes that the ramen on the stove is overflowing. He swears and turns the burner off, then grips the pot and pours the overcooked mess into the sink. The pot handle sears his skin.

Well, that's just  _lovely._  He goes to find the burn cream.

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He doesn't go back to the apartment; instead, he stays at the MGM. He rather likes the gold-and-green theme.

(In the wake of their argument, he's trying to forget, but it hasn't been working too well. Fragments of things—that bizarre girl by the burned-out apartment, for example—aren't prominent enough to hold his attention. He needs a diversion.)

He wants something that requires concentration, which knocks blackjack out. Matt dabbles at the poker tables tonight instead, grudgingly accepting the fact that the monetary gains are significantly lower. He'd rather fleece addle-headed tourists than the house, after all.

He plays slowly; he wants to prolong his time here. The waiters come by ever hour, half-hour, fifteen minutes—he can't tell anymore—and bend down to his ear, solicitously, asking if  _you would like another drink, sir?_  And of course he does.

 _Your friendly local library_  offers free internet, and he stopped in before he came in order to check up on a few of his systems. Well—not  _his_  systems, per se, but systems that fall under his control when he so chooses. It's all the same, right?

Either he's a good guesser or the goons from last night took his advice. Patrick's credit card had shown first in San Francisco, then in the Philippines. Apparently, the guy has some old friends there. After a bit of browsing, Matt catches an email perched in Travis's inbox, purportedly from the guy, saying that he needs a vacation, that his friend is in desperate need of help, and that he's taken the liberty of flying out. That'll get a bounty on him for sure. You don't skip out like that.

_File deleted._

And now—well, now he lounges in the casino, chatting amicably with his fellow players while he happily takes their chips. Someone makes a passing remark about how Kira should outlaw gambling next, because this is theft. Matt laughs it off. "Sure," he drawls. "Let 'im try, yeah?" He blinks at his cards—a ten and a queen, different suits—and frowns. He doesn't much like the queen; it's a bad card to have, high enough that it's tempting to keep her, but low enough that to do so would be stupid. His fingers itch to call, but he folds instead. On with the games.

By the time Mello finds him, he's barely above even; at least he hasn't lost. The blonde comes from behind and digs his fingers into Matt's shoulder by way of introduction. "Sorry," he says to the dealer. "My friend needs to be going now."

"What're you taking about?" Matt shrugs out of Mello's grip and twists around to glare at him. "I can stay here as long as I please."

"Not true, and we both know it," Mello says irritably. "Come  _on_."

"I'm not going—"

Mello's fingers latch back onto his shoulder, but the grip is different this time, and Matt dimly registers the change before the blonde hoists him bodily out of his seat and throws him onto the ground. The spectators—his tablemates, the wait staff, the other patrons—stare silently. The dealer straightens and looks Mello in the eyes, his fingers hovering over the hidden security call. "Is everything all right here,  _sir_?"

"Of course," Mello says brightly. "Thank you for your concern." He looks down at Matt, still smiling broadly. "Are you quite ready, now?"

The hacker scowls and clambers back up to his feet. His face is flushed scarlet. "I'll be out in fifteen."

"Good."

Mello leaves the casino, the bright silver of his chains glittering against his leather, and Matt is left to sweep up his chips and the tattered cloak of his pride. The sweet burn of alcohol takes a sharp turn, diving from 'pleasant' and passing into 'sour.' Sometimes he wishes that Mello would just do him a favor and  _die._  It would make life a fucking lot simpler.

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Mello is disgusted. "You're not sober," he says.

"Well, aren't you the little prodigy?" Matt asks sarcastically. "I'm perfectly rational."

"You're going to kill your liver."

"Yeah, yeah, m'lungs, too. It's a calculated risk."

"You're supposed to be  _smart_."

"And so are you," Matt shoots back. Mello frowns.

"What does  _that_  mean?"

Matt is silent, grinning crookedly at him through the goggles. Mello rolls his eyes. "I can't very well bring you in for work like you are, can I?"

"Ah, now he sees," Matt declares, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. "Lord, we thank you for our daily bread, an' for our miracles, like this one today..."

"Oh, shut  _up_. You're going to get me in trouble."

Matt starts laughing. "Oh, well, my  _apologies_ —"

Bickering like this might be kind of nice, if only Matt wasn't trying to refrain from ripping out Mello's throat.

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So Mello dumps him at the apartment—"You had better stay here, I'll have work for you later"—and Matt sinks onto the sofa. They'll argue about said 'work' later. He won't be a willing accomplice to any more abductions.

Well, he tells himself as much.

The rain has washed away some of the chalk lines that they used to draw—bright dividers between  _my side_  and  _your_   _side,_  etched into the asphalt with the cheerful promise of impermanence. Things have changed. Matt is no longer a lackey, content with doing what has to be done in order to claim a letter grade. They both have their own agendas.

And yet he's still here.

They need to talk. Didn't they just try that a few hours ago? And Matt had managed to derail productive questioning by bringing up the past. Damn it. He hadn't  _meant_  to do that.

The doorbell rings, and Matt nearly jumps out of his skin, curses on his lips from his heart's stutter. The only person who ever comes by is Mello, and Mello would never pause before entering his own place. He rises to his feet cautiously, silently, and bends over to bring up the security feed on his laptop. Sure enough, it's a stranger standing outside the door.

Well, not quite. It's a woman—she looks like she's twenty-six, twenty-seven, and her brown hair twists from her roots in chestnut waves.

Matt shuts the lid to his laptop. Outside, she starts talking. "Matt," she calls, "are you in there?" Her tone is a lot different from what it was earlier. Deeper. More serious. It fits her image better. Does that mean that she was putting up an act before?

Of course she was. Humans aren't capable of telling the truth.

Matt exhales slowly and rises to his feet. He doesn't feel up to this, but she's not about to give him a choice.


	7. Chapter 7

She's waiting at the door, cherry-bright lips pressed together, arms folded over her chest. Her clothes are the same, informal and loose, but her attitude is not. There's something to be said for the  _textures_  of appearances, the intangible notions that set the stage. If he had to ascribe a texture to her now, it would be  _angularity_ —it suits her, this unsmiling expression, the businesslike demeanor, and he's glad of it. He needs a…a basis, a foundation to work from, and while he doesn't mind parrying falsehoods with masks, he's getting tired of it.

"So," she says, tipping her head to the side, "are you surprised?"

"Yeah, actually." He leans against the doorframe, keeping his hand on the knob. He needs the steadying. "So, what's the deal? You stalking me?"

He's glad of the goggles. They keep him a step removed from all of this.

Amusement curls her mouth. "You could call this a hobby."

"A  _hobby_?" He raises an eyebrow.

Her eyes are blue, like Mello's—cold and calculating, despite the tilt of her lips. She says, "I wasn't lying about being a med student, you know. I just do this on the side."

And then she picks his hand up from the doorframe—he doesn't resist—and folds a thin strip of plastic into it. "We'll be in touch," she says, and he wonders at the antecedent for that  _we._  "Don't fret."

He closes the door and pockets the flash drive, then pads to the computer room. Outside, an engine grumbles to life, and he can barely hear the grinding of rubber against asphalt.

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"Hello, Matt." His speakers buzz as the voice speaks. It's the voice of  _L_ —or at least, his synthesized voice. Matt doesn't know what the  _real_  L sounded like. Whoever he was.

There are very few people who posses the algorithm for L's voice.

"I want to speak with you."

Matt leans over his desk and touches his forehead to the wood, because he's got a hangover coming on and Mello's pissed and life sucks and  _he's been found_ , and this is _not_  how he wants to spend his winter.

The flash drive plugged into his computer blinks. One-two, one-two, the red light flashes on and off and on again.

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There are days when all you can do is close your eyes. Sew them shut—seal them—bind your eyelids to the skin of your cheeks with cyanoacrylate—and sleep. Outside light, that's your enemy. It burrows its way through hair and bone, crawls around the inside of your skull, probing, gouging, until blood is drawn and you stagger to the medicine cabinet, looking for ibuprofen but needing something stronger.

Survival is an art.

Mello doesn't speak to him when he comes home, and that's fine by Matt. He's not speaking to Mello, either. It's too exhausting.

He forgoes the cigarettes in favor of unconsciousness; life can wait until tomorrow.

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He wakes up to a hand pressing on his shoulder. "We had a hell of a time with the job, minus a hacker," Mello informs him tartly. He looks even more imposing viewed from this angle, and it's  _bothersome_. "You're not pulling this one again."

Matt grimaces and blinks sleep from his eyes. "S'not my fault." His mouth tastes like sleep.

"Actually," the blonde says dryly, "it is. You were drunk, remember?"

"Oh."

Matt traces patterns across the ceiling with his eyes, and Mello, always the pragmatist, walks away. The hacker smirks and closes his eyes against the sunlight's slow advance beyond the apartment curtains. Score one for Matt.

And then Mello comes back—his boots announce his presence—and, with great ceremony, pours a bottle of water out over his head.

Matt tumbles off the couch and slams his knee into the coffee table, courtesy of his usual grace. " _Christ_ , Mello," he gripes. "If you hadn't  _disposed of_  Patrick, you wouldn't  _need_  me to hack for your bloody jobs."

The blonde just shrugs.

" _Christ_ ," Matt repeats, sweeping his dripping bangs off his face. He clambers to his feet and leans on the sofa. "You know, I didn't  _ask_  to get involve in any of this."

"Too bad," Mello says. "You've been in _cor_ por _ated._ " That last word—he chants it, smacking each syllable between his tongue and his teeth. He shrugs again, letting a smile flirt with his lips. "Come  _on_ , Matt. What did you expect?"

Matt opens his mouth—then closes it—and opens it again. Finally, he just presses on the bridge of his goggles, mashing the wet plastic into his skin, and closes his eyes. "I  _didn't_."

"You're working the next job." The order has been inevitable for a while; they've both known that Matt would fall in line eventually. And then Mello pauses. "Sorry. If you want out, though—it has to be total. You know that."

And that's as fucking close to respect as they're ever going to get, but it's something. Always, always something. Matt snorts and runs a hand through the thicket of soggy twigs crowning his head. "You're insufferable, some days."

Mello bares his teeth in a half-grin. "I try."

Matt barks a laugh, then walks past Mel and goes to rummage in the pantry. He wants breakfast.

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"Mello," he says. Outside, the city whirls past in a nauseous blaze of neon lighting—red and green and pink and yellow, flaming logos and taillights and shapeshifting signs. "How did you find me?"

The blonde doesn't look away from the road. You can't, on the strip—it's not safe. Normally, that wouldn't bother them, but this is a borrowed car. "Same way you found me." His gloved hands twirl the wheel with expert deftness. "I just keep my ears open. You're making a name for yourself." He flicks a glance towards the torpid hacker. "Why?"

"Just thinking." Matt watches the heady rush of lighting outside with peeled eyes, drinking in the atmosphere. Drinking and drinking and drinking it all in, swallowing in great desperate gulps, because he's dehydrated, and there's nothing like a bit of urbanity for slaking one's thirst. Isn't that how things usually go? People go to cities in order to feed off each other. "Same way I found you, then."

Mello's cell starts buzzing on the dash—one- _two_ , one- _two_. "Get it, would you?" Mello swings around the median for the tenth time. They've been circling up and down the strip for the past twenty minutes. "It's a text."

Matt grabs for it and flips the cover open. "Travis," he reads. "He says that they're ready."

"About time," Mello says. His fingers flex on the wheel. "You have the directions?"

Matt glances up from the screen. "Yeah. Turn around again, and then it's a right—"

Tonight's job is more involved than Matt's used to, though the blonde is taking it in stride. Some arms deal. His job is to scramble any outgoing radio signals—or, for that matter, any other wireless noise. They need to get there before the other parties do, in order to set up the fields.

Sometimes he wonders about good faith and all of that, but honestly, this  _is_  what he's bought into, isn't it?

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They finish the job; it goes off without a hitch. The others are pleased.

 _._ , he types, and hits save before going to sleep.

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This time, he's the one who walks in on  _her._  Well—them.

The apartment building is gone, replaced by an empty lot. This is the quiet lull of the in-between. Some developer has snatched up the property, and he hasn't wasted any time in obliterating all traces of the previous inhabitants from the site. The twisted fire escape no longer twines with the thin haze of the city air; by the same token, though, no plywood cubes sketch the outlines of a new vision against the empty sky. Limbo.

She leans against the brick wall of a building across the street that could have been a clone of his onetime apartment. Her clothes have changed, again, though that's not surprising. It's getting cooler here. Sixty degrees Fahrenheit isn't too bad, but it still warrants her blazer, and her tee has been exchanged for a long-sleeved collared shirt.

Next to her, of course, is  _him_ , garbed in the too-large pajamas that have always filled his wardrobe. The kid just can't be bothered to change into regular clothes. And people always call  _him_  childish.

"He's not here again." The words hiss in his ear; the reception isn't what it could be, but he rushed this job. "I'm not surprised." Amanda's voice. She sounds bored.

"He'll come," Near declares. His voice brooks no argument.

"You said that last time."

Near turns to look up at her. His posture makes him resemble a crooked umbrella skeleton rather than a human being; Amanda has at least a half-foot advantage on him. " _Always_  assume that you are correct," he tells her. "Except when you aren't."

"That's…"

"Profound?" His laugh goes unvoiced, but Matt, sitting concealed on the sidelines, still manages to hear it. "I agree." He's looking at the ground again, a finger curling around a lock of hair—ignoring her, a reflection of a smile twisting his lips. Amanda sighs. Matt can see it, even from his spot in the alley; the motion ripples through her entire frame.

"…Yes." The  _if you say so_  also goes unvoiced. It must be aggravating, hanging around Near.

Near remains bent against the wall, and she shifts her weight to her left foot. Matt watches, watches, and the cold grit of the asphalt pushes back against his sneakers. Do you know what they call that?  _The normal force_ , that's what it is, because under normal circumstances you can have faith: faith that when you push, the world pushes back; you can trust that the ground won't crumble beneath your  _weight_ , your mass-times-grav, and leave you stranded in a vacuum.

Amanda is—nervous? Impatient? Bored? She continues to scan the street, her eyes flickering from spot to spot, alighting on each with the fickle constancy of an errant butterfly.

It's Near who interests him, though. Near! It's been a while.

Forty-one minutes of waiting, of listening to the crunch of Amanda shifting her weight in her heels, of watching cars lunge by, of observation. Forty-one minutes, and then Near talks. His voice is a bit lower—not necessarily deeper, but lower. Thin and hoarse, as if he doesn't use it much. "You can come out whenever you like."

Matt exhales and remains in his crouch. "You did a good job," Near continues. "I confess that I hadn't expected the bugs. Ellickson has been watching you for me, though."

He rises to his feet, counting on the normal force, as usual, to propel him into a standing position. It's well into the afternoon by now, and the sun hits his eyes at a slant. Angled light is always a problem, with his goggles; it sends thin beams of color bleeding across his vision, spreading like defiance in a coloring book. "Don't know who the heck Ellickson is," Matt says, "but it doesn't really  _matter_ , does it?"

Amanda looks slightly taken aback. "You came," she says, marveling a bit, and Matt keeps his eyes half-lidded.

"I didn't come here to talk with idiots," he says as he approaches them. "Don't know why I  _did_  come here, but I know that much."

Near's fingers creep into his hair. "Thank you, Matt."

"Don't mention it." Two feet from the pair, and he stops. He feels exposed, out on a deserted street with the sun beginning to slip away. "Seriously. Don't. Ever."

"The sentiment remains."

"I don't care."

Near meets his non-gaze. The albino's eyes haven't changed—they're still the same clear, dull shade of off-white. Matt finds himself reflected in Near's pupils, disproportional and bug-eyed on the rounded surface. They're always dilated, those pupils, always wide, as if the world couldn't possibly contain enough light to illuminate its ways.

Matt's eyes, of course, are ordinary. Boring. He's just Regular Joe, a foil to the two obsessive geniuses. Funny, how things evolve.

Near blinks and refocuses on the sidewalk. "How is Mello faring? Roger worries for him."

"He's fine." Matt's eyes flick towards Amanda; her face is a practiced shade of  _blank_ , but he wonders.

"Fine?" Again, that smile twitches along Near's lips. He ignores Matt's glance towards his companion, instead staring resolutely at the ground under his feet. "Is he ever _fine_?"

Matt can't imagine what's so interesting about the sidewalk. The weeds aren't particularly remarkable, and there's no interesting graffiti scrawled on the surface; it's just a plain slab of concrete, dull even by this neighborhood's standards. " _I_  don't know," he says. "I'm not really privy to his thoughts."

Near's head bobs in acknowledgement, sending his thicket of curls bouncing. "Nevertheless," he says, "you are still in a better position to offer insight than I am."

A better position! As if Matt actually  _knows_  Mello. Doesn't Near get it by now? They're unknowable, all of them. No. That's a lie, and Matt omits it from his mental logbook. They  _should_  be unknowable, yes.  _That's_  what the point is.

He doesn't want to know any of them.

"Maybe." He shrugs. "Why?"

"I was just…wondering." Near pauses. "Also, things are changing."

"That's unusually vague for you." Matt slips a hand into his pocket. "What things?"

"You haven't noticed?"

"Not really." He fishes around, comes up with a cigarette. "Do inform me." He lights up and takes a long drag, savoring the taste, watching as Near's nose twitches.

Amanda coughs, and he looks over at her. She lifts a hand to her nose, grazing it with the back of her palm before refolding her arms over her chest. Matt grins and takes the cigarette from his mouth. "Don't smoke, do you?"

"No," she says stiffly. He inclines his head.

"Sorry, then," he says. "Near, who is she?"

Amanda's jaw stiffens slightly, probably due to his offhand reference of her as a nonpresent entity. Near looks up, finally, a dazed expression gracing his features. "Oh, she's just a friend," he clarifies. "She agreed to help me with this…matter. It's related to the change I spoke of earlier." His brow furrows, and Matt can almost hear him ordering his mind to refocus on reality. Near has always had that problem—he slips away too easily, looses his grasp of the present in favor of imaginary worlds that trail along through the air like baubles on a string.

"Go on," Matt prods.

"There isn't a lot to say." Near's eyes drop back down to his feet again; whatever momentary interest he had had in Matt is gone once again. "Kira is rising, of course. Mello left the House in order to search him out; I did the same, but we are now on different paths."  _Now_  they're on different paths? Matt bites back a snort; they haven't _shared_  a path since they were joined in apathy, before their statuses as potential successors were announced.

"Mello's activities are morally objectionable," Near continues. "Kira is playing a game with us. To crawl at the level of criminals is an indisputable loss. Mello needs to realize that this needs to be played above board."

"Kira." Matt stares at his cigarette, watches as smoke weaves from its tip and disperses in the air. "Always Kira, isn't it?"

"He's the main sociopolitical force of the twenty-first century, it would seem," Amanda interjects, keeping her voice low, placating. "We want to change that."

"Bull," he says flatly. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe Mello's just in this for the sake of the game itself?"

Near's eyes go all wide again, the pupils enlarging and stretching and expanding until the whites of his eyes all but disappear. Despite that, though, his expression remains studiously slack. "If you believe that," he says, "then he's right, and you have fallen farther than I would have thought."

It's that damned—that  _mockery_ , that condescension, that suggestion that Matt is somehow  _less than_  the two of them. That's what grates. It chafes, like mangled code chafes at his sensibilities. He glances at the sun. It's nearly five, if he's judging north in the correct direction. Time to be heading home.

"If that's the case," he says, "then maybe you just give up on me, yeah? Bug out."

He's tired. Last night was a sleepless one—his system's security needed some improvements, and he had lost track of time. And then there was this meeting to attend to.

Near frowns. "If Mello left to hunt Kira," he says, "and to avenge our predecessor—and if I left in order to do the same—then why did  _you_  leave, Matt?"

Matt exhales.

"I guess I was tired," he says. "Change of scenery, you know? America is kind of nice."

Near nods, slowly, and lifts his eyes from the ground. "Thank you for coming here, Matt."

"I already told you not to mention it."

They take their leave of each other. Near leaves with Amanda trailing three steps behind him, already reaching into his pocket for a cell. Matt leaves, too, but he doesn't bother calling anyone to pick him up; he's perfectly capable of walking back to the more populous regions of the city on his own.

And like he said: America is kind of nice. It would be a real pity to miss it.

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"Where were you?"

"Oh," Matt says. "Nowhere in particular."

Mello's nostrils flare, searching for the smell of liquor and alcohol, and the hacker bristles; Mello always assumes that "nowhere" means a casino, though in all honesty, he can't blame him for that.

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Matt hoards addictions like others collect seashells or Pokemon cards or photographs. He keeps them buried in a box underneath his bed and every now and then, he takes them out, polishes them a bit, and admires them. They change, as the months and the years flip by. Radioactive decay, you could call it. Some things melt away within a few days' time; others last and last and last.

Matt's hands grip the reins, though, that's for sure! As long as his addictions stay penned inside the cardboard walls of his shoebox, he'll be fine. Just…fine.

Fine.

His collection grows as he does. Right now, his biggest trophy is the cigarette, first smoked at the age of twelve; alcohol isn't such a grand prize, and gambling is too intellectual to really deserve a place inside his shoebox. He shoves the other things to the bottom, obscuring them from view. The cigarette isn't the oldest inhabitant, but the old addictions never do grow stale.

See, there's nothing shameful in nicotine or alcohol or any of that, when you think hard enough about it. The stigmas aren't quite there, not in Matt's head, anyhow.

The other things, though. Well. He's always hated feeling dependent.

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One day, Matt wakes to the sound of shouting. He cracks an eye open, hesitates, then peels the other one open as well. It takes his brain a moment to reboot, but once it does, he pinpoints the source of the cacophony: the foyer. He sinks back into the couch and closes his eyes, unwilling to relinquish the deaf bliss of sleep for the troubles of reality.

Eh. Too bad.

The yelling continues, but he can't make out the distinct words. The noises are too fast; they careen along sound waves, up-down-up-down rollercoasters carting meanings along inside their little carriages, jumbling the words up against the sides of the carts until they vomit their coherency over the side and give up on definitions. The poor words: by the time they reach his ears, dizzy and exhausted and spinning, they have forgotten what they were supposed to convey.

He listens to them nonetheless, those fragments of once-words, listens to their pitch, their timbre. One is Mello's: cadenced, tinged with his accent, with peaks of sharp pitches at the crests of his words. The other drags through the air like sandpaper through water, the deeps tones rumbling with the lumbering force of a slow-moving torpedo.

"I  _told_  him to be fucking careful."

"Well, obviously it wasn't enough!" Matt winces as Mel's voice sends bullets splintering through his skull. "You left it up to  _him_? What did you  _think_  would happen?"

"It's his own business if he gets himself killed!" He sounds like a howling bear—trying to raise his voice, but caught by the limitations of his own vocal cords. The words rasp as they are kicked from his throat.

"Don't you get it? This messes up  _everything_ —"

Matt lurches to the doorway of the living room and glares at the two of them. The blonde's mouth snaps shut at the sight of him. "Would you mind bloody shutting up?" Matt demands. "I'm  _trying_  to sleep—or I  _was_ , anyway."

The stranger is  _big_. Corded muscles ripple along his arms; the veins in his neck bulge and pulse visibly beneath the surface. Everything about him reflects near-giantine proportions. The bald crown of his head is slick with sweat, and his face is contorted in an irate grimace. "Who's this?" Obviously, Matt has disturbed an argument of _utmost importance._

Mello folds his arms and forces his lips together, trying to compose his expression. It might have worked on someone else, but Matt knows him too well to miss the straining muscles in his jaw, the smothered creases across his forehead. "My friend. He's crashing here until he gets his own place. Matt, this is Rod."

Matt inclines his head sullenly. "I'd say it was nice to meet you, but I don't think it'd be appropriate."

The big guy—Rod—tilts his head and presses his lips together. His breathing is still erratic, but he manages speech well enough. "I appreciate the thought, kid." He straightens his collar. "Matt, right?"

"Yeah."

Rod glances at Mello. "The hacker you were talking about."

The blonde nods. Rod casts an appraising eye over Matt, absorbing everything in a glance: the scent of smoke ingrained on his skin, the neon goggles, the thin, angular architecture of pale skin hung on bones. "Don't get your feathers so ruffled," Rod says to Mello. "Kid's as good as you say, we didn't need Leon, anyway."

Mello stews. You can see it on him—smoldering resentment simmering under his skin like ramen about to boil over. He quakes with it. "We didn't need him to go off himself, either."

"We make do, like always." Rod claps a hand on Mello's shoulder. His palm is bigger than the blonde's protruding shoulderblade. "Bring him by my place tomorrow. We'll get him started—for real, this time."

The argument apparently diffused, Rod takes his leave. Mello's still in a sour mood. "Don't butt in where you're not wanted, Matt."

Matt disappears into the living room, collapses on his couch. "You're the one who penned me in this apartment to begin with."

"You'll regret meddling, if you're not careful." He almost whispers the words—they slip from his lips a full octave below his ordinary speech, as if sneaking past the warden of his tongue.

"Yeah, yeah. We're both older than that, Mel."

There isn't much to be said to that.

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The next morning, Matt wakes up early. Early, early, early—so early that it might as well be late, the way their schedule runs; the sun is still stubbornly dragging her heels in the east, refusing to illuminate their slice of American pie. He wakes a swearing Mello up, too, and Mello curses and groans but then Matt slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise and the blonde spits on his palm but gets up anyway.

Breakfast is a cup of coffee and a bagel for each of them, and a cigarette for Matt. He drives. Mello, riding shotgun, is still trying to find his voice. "What the fuck" comes out as a croaked whisper, but Matt ignores it. This is important.

It takes him a half-hour to find the park, at this hour, without the usual light to go by. He drives up to the outlook, parks the car, and drags his companion outside with him. Mello has given up on speech; he's got enough on his hands trying to keep his footing. The path is less of a walkway and more of a game trail; rocks slip from under the thick black boots and get lodged in the grooves. Come on, come on, Matt says. You're taking too long. We'll miss it.

Miss what?

You'll see.

They scramble up a series of rust-stained steps, until finally they've done it—ascended the precarious path and made it to the top, to the top, which just happens to be underneath  _another_ cliff. Too many cliffs, says Mello.

Just look, would you?

Red Rock Canyon is a special place in the winter. Where they are now—seated in the back of a cave, after taking a back entrance up, facing a sheet of solid ice: the frozen remnants of what will become a waterfall come spring. The walls are streaked with crimson and cinnamon and autumn in all colors, even if it's out of season. The sky can be seen through the thinnest parts in the ice, through the little holes and imperfections in the curtain. It glows a dim gray.

As the sun rises, the ice acts like a typical prism, sending light splintering across the cave in a thousand separate beams of color. Mello says, Is this why you woke me up?

Matt says, Well, yeah. And he lights another cigarette.

Mello starts laughing. Idiot, he says between gasps of air. It's not even six.

So? And Matt keeps puffing.

You come here a lot?

I used to.

They sit like that, Matt reclining against the stone wall, Mello crouched on his heels, nursing hypothermia while they watch the sun rise. Matt reaches into his pocket. Brought you something, he says.

Mello takes it. Chocolate, he mutters, turning it over in his hands. Matt nods solemnly.

Chocolate.

I haven't had chocolate in—

I know. Why not?

There's no answer for that one, so Mello shrugs. Matt clucks his tongue and takes another drag. Eat it already.

I don't…

Don't what?

Never mind.

Don't you say that to me, you son of a swine. Eat the chocolate. Matt pauses. Sometimes I think that you forget who you are, you know? We all do.

So Mello opens the chocolate bar, slowly, reverently. First to go is the paper sleeve. Next comes the foil, peeled slowly away, layer by layer. And finally the thing itself is exposed to the open air, the cold, open air, and he takes a cautious bite, sinking his front teeth into a single block of the concoction.

It's good.

Matt laughs and says, I told you so.


	8. Chapter 8

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They pick their way down the slick rocks, taking care not to scrape a shin or twist an ankle. Mello, in particular, is wary of sullying his clothing; taking his leather to the dry cleaner's is a bothersome task.

The sun spreads across the sky like a split egg yolk oozing across a pan, a gleaming lump of yellow fat swimming in a sea of clear sludge. When they get to the car, Mello tips his head upward, looks out the window. "You know," he says, "the sky looked better from the cave."

He laughs, and Matt allows himself a wry smile as he starts the car. Mello has always had a knack for perceiving the world as it really is.

Ahead of them, the highway pools and slithers along the barren landscape; it laps against the brave clusters of villas perched on rocky ridges of nowhere, brushing against red-bricked walls before sweeping away in sharp twists and plummeting towards the vast pit of the city. And on the horizon, like the spines of a fish's skeleton, lies the city, a jagged silhouette that cuts across the skyline.

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By noon, Matt is glued to the neon glow of his screen. He was once trained--they both were--in the science of forgoing sleep. It's not an art; he will not call it that. To term it an  _art_  would imply that it contained the possibility of  _beauty,_  of  _elegance._  Matt knows better. There is nothing elegant in driving stakes through the thin corners of your mind, in sinking metal hooks into gray matter and ordering the draft horses to pull and pull and pull until their hooves are slipping in the proverbial mud, until the synapses of your brain tumble down the stairs instead of leaping the gaps. There is nothing admirable in the conscious decision to inflict that kind of misery upon oneself. Sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice is a poor notion indeed.

By noon, his eyes continue to blink and dart and skitter from letter to pixelated letter, but he is focused, and that is the important bit. Focus. His too-caffeinated hands stumble across the keys like dizzy brawlers, but their inebriation only increases their speed, their effectiveness; he wields their confusion to his advantage. Matt is drunk on this sensation, and he knows it, but after the morning, he can go without the sleep. He had slipped into sleep at one this morning; at five, he had woken himself and Mello. Four hours, in all honesty, was small change--or it should have been. Once upon a time, in the orphanage, he had gone for seventy-six hours during a marathon final. Matt mulls such memories over and stares at his faint half-reflection in the monitor. What has he come to?

He is a lackey, a typist, a hacker, a secretary. He is a brooder, a teenager, a boy with goggles sealed around his eyes, a pair of quivering hands, a set of booted feet seized with wanderlust. He is a mind, he is a thought, he is a sufferer, he is a dweller--and it is noon, and he is a restless stomach, and he is a restless idea. It is noon.

Mello asks him if he'd like to go somewhere, and Matt answers his question with a question:

"Is it Rod?"

Yes, Mello says, it is. He wants to meet them at a restaurant on the strip, if that's all right with Matt. Mello flashes his teeth. "It's a respectable place, you know. Need a dress shirt?"

"For  _lunch_?"

"Matt, this is Vegas."

As if he needs reminding. Matt rolls his eyes and feels his temples throb. "You know as well as I do that I don't own anything remotely formal."

"True, but--the illusion of freedom, remember? You'll have to leave your goggles, too."

"Damn," Matt says sarcastically.

"There's also a smoking ban."

"A smoking--oh, for the love of Christ." Matt scrambles for a cigarette and a pack of nicotine gum, ignoring the room as it twirls and snatches the packet from his grasp, leaving his hand groping blindly across the table. "You determined to make my life uncomfortable? What kind of place around here has a  _smoking ban?_ "

"Don't blame me," Mello calls as he goes to find a spare dress shirt and slacks. "It's Rod who calls the shots."

"Sure thing," Matt mutters. He steps out of the apartment and lights up in the stairwell, forcing himself to savor the bitter taste of ash while he can. He closes his eyes and takes drag after drag, waiting as the nicotine flushes through his blood in a pleasant buzz. If Mello wasn't the one who arranged today's meeting-- _if_ \--chances are good that it's a test of Matt's aptitude. Matt stares through the sterile brick facade before him and considers his situation. He's getting rather tired of being expected to prove himself, but it's something to be expected, he supposes. Rod probably saw Matt's state of existence--his disheveled clothing, his sagging eyes, the cloud of smoke that oozed from his skin--and picked a place based on that. Well, fine. Matt'll prove his own worth, if it came to that. He can play this game.

And then the brief burst of coherent thought breaks down as the addiction curls through his system, and Matt stifles a groan and pinches the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand. He's paying for the lack of sleep. Some state he's in, when four hours isn't enough to fuel him. He casts an apprehensive glance at the stairs, pictures himself bumbling down them, knocking into walls as he goes, and wonders how he'll make a decent impression on Rod.

The smoking ban is pretty funny, though. Enough states have restaurant smoking bans, but Vegas, being Vegas, is definitely  _not_  subject to those laws. Most places are glad to cater to anyone and everyone. If Rod had thought he could discomfort Matt just be depriving him temporarily of his nicotine, then--well. Matt's been through worse.

Mello sticks his head out the door, and Matt chokes back a laugh. For his troubles, he gets a lungful of smoke that sends into a partial hacking fit. Mello scowls. "Are you quite done?"

" _Quite,_ " Matt says. A grin remains stretched across his features; after all, seeing a  _respectable_  Mello is always something entertaining. Gone are the chains, the leather, the monstrous boots; in their place are plain slacks and a collared shirt with a jacket. The look doesn't suit Mello--the suit swamps his lithe frame, and the whole ensemble looks too stiff. "Do I get to wear a jacket, too?" he asks, tripping over his words as he trips over his own feet on his way to the door. "It's just lunch, you know."

"I know," says Mello, folding his arms. The fabric bunches at his elbows. "And no, you don't--I left you my spare clothes in the bathroom, though. Hurry up and finish, would you? And  _shave._ "

He stubs the cigarette out on the wall, ignoring Mello's thin-set look of consternation, and goes to change. He takes his time. Matt isn't one for stiff collars or cuff links, but he makes do. The sleeve-cuffs chafe at his wrists; the button against his twitching fingers. He finds his razor, runs a shot of cold water over it, and begins sawing away the gray grit sprouting along his jaw. His face has an shadowy cast to it--his eyes are too bright--but all in all, he looks presentable, more so than he has in quite some time. Mello's clothes actually fit him. Matt grimaces and drops his razor back into a drawer before turning his back to the mirror and closing his eyes. With some effort, he composes his expression--flattens the creases, relaxes the muscles, seals the mouth in a determined line--and then turns around again and examines his reflection. Staring back at him is an older teen with the sheen of arrogance glowing from the solemn lines of his face. There it is: the expression of cool condescension, of studious boredom. His composure. He's got it again. The inebriation of sleepless work and nicotine evaporates at his command; Matt is in control once more.

He flicks the light off and strides back to the foyer, where Mello is impatiently shifting from foot to foot. "Ready."

"Good." Mello barely spares him a passing glance before jingling the keys in his hand. "About time. Come on."

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The restaurant is tucked into a corner of the Mirage, off of the main hallway. The Vegas hotels all share a unifying pomp, but this one is relatively tame. The dim lighting in the restaurant covers up most of the ugly fixtures—Matt will  _never_  understand interior "design"—and the booths are privately placed; screens at strategic intervals and paneling on the walls slow the progression of noise. Their waitress leads them to one of the booths in the back as soon as she sees Mello. He's a relatively familiar sight, apparently, and Matt wonders where the money for the tab is going to come from.

Rod fills a full side of the booth; Matt and Mello slide into place opposite him. Matt settles back to study this new interloper. He doesn't know anything about Rod except for his name, which is  _presumably_ correct, and a vague notion of leadership. The man is much as he remembers: the veins of his hands sprawl across his hands like rivers across a landscape, and muscle and fat alike sit solidly on his frame in thick slabs. Rod's mouth opens in a grin, showing the disorderly stalactites of his teeth. "Good to see you're still alive," he says, sipping from a glass of water. "Anything new that I should know?"

"Nothing of interest," Mello replies, then glances up at the waitress who has followed them to their seat. Her fingers are drumming against her crossed arms. "Water for me," he orders. "Matt?"

"Coffee," Matt says, keeping his eyes rooted to Rod. Mello looks at him and, once the waitress departs with their order, Rod raises an eyebrow.

"Well?" Rod says in reference to Matt's tone. "Something wrong, or what?"

"Nothing at all," Matt says, struggling to keep his eyes from sagging—or, worse, from skittering too much. But here's the thing--there  _is_  something wrong, because Rod knows Mello as  _Mello_ , not as Hannon, and that...should not be.

"This is just Matt being himself," Mello says dryly, giving the menu a cursory glance. He waves a hand without looking up. "Rod, Matt; Matt, Rod. Matt, Rod's a friend of mine. You remember Andrew? They're relatives of a sort."

Matt's only half-listening, though there's probably a segment of his brain dutifully processing this information for later use. The old name-riddle has him snagged again, reawakened by hearing another person refer to Mello as  _Mello_. Who are they, when it comes down to it? Matt knows that he's Matt, not Mail, never Mail--he lost his original identity before he could remember having it, and in all honesty, Mail Jeevas is a symbol more than anything else. Mello, though. Mello came in late; Matt still remembers the first day the blonde was dragged, sullen and silent, into their class: he had been five. The human psyche is a delicate thing; Matt knows Mello, but as for what the blonde terror calls  _himself_ , in his mind...

It's a mystery, but it's not his to ponder, as he reminds himself again. So he says instead, "Isn't this a bit of an odd meeting place?"

Rod grunts and settles back in his seat. "I like this place," he retorts. "That's enough. They're discreet, here, an' discretion is something you can't order on most menus." His face cracks in a grin. "Besides, Randall's eyeing my head again, and he doesn't expect me at anyplace respectable."

Mello laughs at that, a brisk, sharp laugh that sets Matt's teeth on edge. He leans back in his seat. "That guy's going to get kicked off the force if he keeps showing this miserably. Didn't we thrash him enough last time?"

"Obviously not." Rod shrugs. "It doesn't matter, though—I've got a few boys on his tail who can be trusted to keep a cool head. It's that damned pride of his," he complains, spreading his hands as if to say that it's out of his control. "If we keep trying to shove him out, he'll keep coming, so—"

"So you're opening the door," Mello finishes, pausing as the waitress sets down his water and Matt's coffee.

"I'll be back in a few minutes for your orders," she says in a sing-song voice—she'd obviously been doing this for a while. "If you have any questions, just let me know." She turns and leaves, her heels clacking against the floor. Matt sighs and gulps at his coffee. He has to force it down his throat; the thing is loaded with too much  _stuff_ : cream and sugar and God knows what else—it's probably meant to taste expensive.

Mello returns his attention to the menu. "So," he says, thumbing through the pages, "what are you giving him?"

"A few tips," Rod says vaguely. "Some of that's why I called you down. But, first—manners, right?" He looks over to Matt, who occupies himself with scanning the laminated pages. "I always get salmon, but pasta's good, too. Pretty huge portions, just to warn you."

Matt unfocuses his eyes, jabs his finger at a random spot on the menu, and allows chaos to decide on ravioli. "Thanks," he says. "Look, out of curiosity—you two apparently have a working setup that circumvents Travis, so where do I come in? I'm just—"

"—Just a hacker, yes, of course," Mello interrupts tersely. "There's no need to go through all of this again, Matt. Rod, unlike our dear friend, does his research; you don't need to keep up the pretense if you don't want to."

Funny, Matt thinks. Really funny, considering that you've dragged me here in my current state, taken away my cigarettes, and stuffed me into these clothes—real funny. Of  _course_  pretense doesn't matter.

"Anyway," Mello continues, unruffled, "Rod is much more important than Travis, have no doubts about that, though you shouldn't mention this to him. The reason you're important here is because you're  _Travis's_  hacker. Soon enough you'll be ingrained in his network, as I am, and that's why you matter."

"Plotting a coup?" Matt asks sarcastically, and he doesn't mean it until he sees the dry grin pooling across Rod's face. "Oh."

"Hard to believe you, sometimes," Rod says to Mello, bringing his glass to his lips and draining the water before setting it on the edge of the table. "He hasn't got your…what would you call it?" He bunches his fingers on the table for a moment, then chuckles. "Finesse. That's it. If you're looking to fail at impressions, kid, just keep blundering about like that. You sure that he's as competent as you keep saying?"

Matt scowls and stares determinedly at the wall a few feet from Rod's head; Mello laughs. "He's competent," he assures Rod. "Just keep him away from other people, and he's a marvelous worker; socially, he's completely inept, but that's a forgivable offense in light of his talents."

"That ain't going to help him with getting into Travis's boys' graces," Rod says, eyeing the hacker critically. "And that's what I need 'im for."

Matt's scowl deepens as he returns his eyes to the table. "I  _am_  present, you know," he informs them—well, he addresses Mello, mainly. Condescension from  _that_  one is more annoying. "Would you stop talking over my head?"

Mello's eyes flicker with amusement. "Shall we?"

"Don't see why we ain't finished already," Rod replies, "'sides the fact that I'm hungry. You two mind if I call a waitress?"

Without waiting for confirmation, he raises his hand languidly; it stands out in the air like a huge hunk of ham. One of the wait staff clacks over. "So sorry, sir," this one says, fixing a solicitous smile on her face. "Has Marie not been back yet?"

"You know I told you to give us someone else," Rod says. "She's out of sorts here; I don't like her. Give me my usual. I don't know what they all want."

The waitress grimaces. "I can't do anything about assignments," she says apologetically, dropping the faux-professional voice. "But—I can ask her to swap tables with me; there's a large group over in my section. Will that be all right?"

"Thanks, Lola," Rod says, inclining his head. "On with it, now. I ain't going to wait for confirmation from her."

She—Lola—nods and turns to Matt. "All right, then. What would you like?"

"Ravioli," Matt mutters. The waitress raises an eyebrow.

"Which one, sir? We have—"

"He'll fail at Italian names," Mello says, a trace of disgust lacing his voice. "Look, Matt—mushroom, cheese, sausage, what? Hurry up, or I'll pick for you."

"I'm not a three—" Matt begins, cutting himself off as he realizes that arguing about his maturity in front of a waitress is probably not the best way to salvage his remaining pride. "Sausage. Please."

Mello shakes his head and returns his gaze to the waitress, a smile playing coolly across his lips. "Thank you for putting up with my friend," he says of Matt, who sinks back in the seat and tries to disappear. "I'll have the Linguini Pescatore, if that's quite all right." The letters smack clearly against his teeth and his smile slinks wider; she smiles in return.

"Not a problem, sirs," she says, not bothering to write their orders down. "I'll make sure that you get your meals with all due haste." With a bob of her head, she makes her way back to the kitchen; Mello looks at Rod, a question in his eyes.

"Have you been patronizing this place more often than usual?"

"Often enough," Rod returns, following Lola's passage with his eyes. "I've been skipping along the strip. But—I'm thinking that we should start explaining some more to your friend."

Mello nods. "Fair enough. Shall I begin, or…?"

"It's fine." Rod leans back and fixes Matt with a look. "Now," he says, "I don't know how much Mello's told you, but he ain't here by accident. Not in Vegas, anyways; I don't know about America. We ran into each other in New York, first. Suffice to say that we'd struck a deal—we had a mutually beneficial arrangement set up, Mello doing the occasional legwork while I directed and pulled contacts. It was working fine, but see, thing was, the Family reassigned me to a better post on this coast after the guy out here lost some boys."

The Family. Matt keeps his face closed, but now he understands: this is the guy who Mello's been in contact with all this time. Shit.

"Anyway, the air over here's way too clouded. Kira bumped off a few of the major players, and a bunch of small-time dealers like Travis got their heads in the wrong places. Thought they could compete with  _us._ " Rod takes another sip of his water; his throat bulges as he swallows. "Anyway, I needed a guy I could trust, so I called up Mello after a few months. We can't spread ourselves too thin, you know, an' I don't have time for every little guy what sprouts up. I've knocked down a good dozen little groups since getting here, but Travis is making an ass of himself. Picked off three of his men, and he still won't take a hint. And he's got a pretty little setup anyway, so the local branch ordered my boss to incorporate him." Rod shrugs. "That guy—my old boss—went down some months ago. I've been in charge since."

"But—" Matt takes a cautious swallow of his coffee and clears his throat before continuing. "You can't just come in and steal Travis's operation, right, and he's sure as hell not ceding it to you guys, not even if you give him a cut—which you probably don't want to do. So what's the plan?"

" _We're_  the plan," Mello says simply. He grins at his roommate. "Use your brain, Matt. How did Rod get in charge? The old bloke died. I'm working on a similar rig—Travis  _trusts_  me, the bloody idiot—but I'm going to need at least one ally who I can trust to be smart about things."

The penny drops. "Oh," says Matt. "Is  _that_  all?"

"So," Rod says. "This was just to introduce the deal, Matt. But—Travis ain't going nowhere, and I need him to. This is between us, and a few of my men besides. What I need you to do is to establish yourself within his network—get yourself known as loyal, prove your smarts to his guys, fall in with the group without making yourself seem dumb. Mello—no one's going to cross Mello to his face, but I ain't going to trust Travis's lot to follow him on their own."

Matt sets his coffee on the table and turns it in his hands. "So. Who's designated as Travis's successor as of now?  _Is_  there anyone?"

"No one," Mello says, a bit grimly. "If he goes out, it'll mean infighting—and given the scale of his current operations, the infighting isn't going to be pleasant. On the other hand, that gives us a better chance, since there isn't a current contender to shove out. It would be better if I could push him to name me, but that would be too suspicious."

"Right," Matt says. "So…what am I, for now, then? A silent accomplice?"

"More or less," Mello replies, nodding his head. "I wouldn't think too much about it, Matt. We just wanted to make sure that you're clear—to make sure that you've got your priorities in line, so to speak. You all right with all of this?"

As if it's a question. Matt offers them both a crooked grin. "I don't see why the hell not," he says, rolling a shrug along his shoulders. "I'm in."

The conversation turns to other topics. By the time the food gets to them, he doesn't have much of an appetite for his ravioli; he nearly gags from forcing it down his gullet, but he's got to keep up the illusion of a guy enamored with his lunch in order to forgo the obligatory mealtime chatter. Mello and Rod, on the other hand, manage their seafood just fine while juggling the delicate topics of future endeavors.

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It takes them long enough to get back in the car, and longer still to get back to their apartment; when they do, Mello heads to his room to change. Matt sprawls on the leather couch and takes out a cigarette—doesn't light it, just takes it out, sets it between his teeth. He knows better than to light it in here, but…still. Something about that last encounter doesn't sit right.

The bathroom door creaks as it opens; Matt pulls the cigarette from his mouth and places it on the tabletop. "Mel," he calls.

Boots clunk down the hall. "What?"

"…It's about Rod. Care to come in here?"

Mello obliges. He assumes a perch on the arm of one of the recliners, his crouch sinking into the dark leather. Matt suppresses a snort; the guy might as well be decked out in camouflage. "I'm listening," Mello says. "Let me guess, though: you've got questions about my motives."

"Close enough." Matt turns his gaze to the ceiling. "I mean…look, I understand that you've got ambition. I've got that. But why this way? Why not form your own gang?"

"The Family has the framework and the resources I need," Mello says. "But I think that you're missing something, Matt, and we may as well clear the air now—yes?"

"I guess we may as well." Matt hesitates, chews the skin of his lip for a moment, and asks, "Hey—you mind if I light up?"

There is a pause, in which Matt keeps his eyes glued to the ceiling and invisible Mello keeps his words behind his teeth. And then: "Fine."

Matt takes the cigarette from the table and returns it to its former position. "Thanks," he mumbles, feeling the red rash of shame spreading irrationally across his cheeks and licking against his ears as his fingers scrabble for his lighter. "Look, just…be frank with me, all right? I want to know what's going on here."

"Fair enough." Mello's voice comes disembodied as Matt flicks the lighter lid open. "Look, you've been in contact with Near"—Matt lights the cigarette, refusing to let his muscles stiffen—"and that's fine, that's your own business, and it hasn't interfered with my operations, so I've overlooked it. But I think we need to come to an understanding. See, here's the thing." Mello jumps down from the recliner arm and walks over to the couch, looming above his comrade. "Whether you think of it like this or not, Matt, you're working for me, and this goes deeper than any ordinary business arrangement. You're  _in_  whatever mess I get into, and vice versa—understand?"

Matt ignores the encroaching presence of the blonde in his field of vision and places the cigarette to his lips. "Mm. What's the difference from before?"

"You're not taking me seriously."

"I am," Matt says. "Go on."

There is an intake of breath, and then: "Matt, the entire reason I came to America was to catch Kira. And he's here. This is my  _chance_. What I'm asking of you is your cooperation in something—something bigger than either of us, something bigger than Travis's shoddy operations, something bigger than even Rod's dealings."

"I don't—"

"The reason I'm making myself sound like a self-important idiot," Mello cuts in, "is that my latest endeavor is more…unstable…than these things have been in the past. I'm not expected to come out of this unscathed, Matt. This is a fucking big fish, but I'm planning on landing it."

He could be talking about maiming, capture, incarceration, death—he's talking about losing.  _Losing_. Mello doesn't…Mello doesn't lose.

Matt swallows, tastes the cotton in his mouth, and forces more smoke down his throat. "You mean that I'd have to lay my life on the line."

"Yes."

"Why should I?"

Mello's jaw twitches just out of Matt's line of sight; the redhead keeps his eyes trained studiously on the plaster ceiling. "This is  _Kira_ ," Mello says, as if that's enough. "This is a maniac, and Near and I are the only ones with any bleeding chance of stopping him."

"That's not enough," Matt says, abruptly shifting into a sitting position. He swings his legs over the side of the couch. "Jesus Christ, Mel—when did you ever think that catching Kira would be enough for me? I don't—"

"Don't care, I know. Why not?"

"Because it's not my fight!" Matt glares at him, finally making eye contact but not bothering to stand. "I have no part in this, Mello. Like you said: it's you and Near. Not me." He rubs a hand across his eyes. "You can find any old hacker to do your tricks for you, but I'm just trying to define  _Matt_. That's all. I don't want to be M2; I don't want to be another castoff prototype. I'm fine on my own. You need to catch Kira, and that's great. But I might as well—I might as well move on." He takes the cigarette out, lets it dangle from his fingers, a smoldering stick of incense. "You know why this arrangement's been working for us, right?"

"You—"

"Hear me out." Matt rests his elbows on his knees, redirects his eyes to the berber. "I'm here because it's suited my interests, Mel. Between Travis and your freelance stuff, I've got a rather nice wage, and I've pretty much got free reign. But I'm not attached to this cause like you are—and I know that there's always been danger involved, but if it's going to be significant enough that you're actually  _warning_  me?" Matt takes another drag, still staring into the carpet. "Look. I appreciate it. I do. But I want out."

There is silence for a minute, and then, to his right: "I thought you'd say something like that."

Matt nods his head, slowly, letting his bangs wash in front of his vision. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me just yet." Mello's voice dips a few notes, slipping into a murmur of grating rock. "Where do you think you'll head from here, Matt? Don't tell me you've been planning this for a while."

"I haven't been. You should know that. As for where...back home? Christ." Matt closes his eyes. "All I want is to get out, Mel. Whatever, wherever makes that happen--that's all."

"That's it?" Mello asks, his low voice penetrating Matt's self-induced darkness. Matt's brain starts churning.

"Yeah," he says, the words dancing across his tongue while he keeps his eyes squeezed shut. "I mean—I don't really have plans yet, obviously. I'm probably not sticking in the immediate area, you know?"

"You  _do_  realize that you're failing miserably at lying, yes?" There is a rustle of cloth. "Stop with the sparring, Matt."

"I'm not—"

The cold press of metal against his head leaves his words dry and snaps his eyes open. Matt glares up at the hand wielding the weapon. "Mello. What the hell?"

Mello presses the gun closer against Matt's head, warping the flow of his red hair. "Come, now," he says, as he bends down to bring his eyes on level with Matt's. "Don't you know me better than that? You aren't the type to make such awful calculations that you'd tell me to my face that you're planning on tearing up root."

True enough. Matt grimaces and lets the cigarette dangle loosely from his right hand; his throat tenses. He should have known better.  _Should_. "Stop fucking around—" he says, his tone sharp. Buying time. It had better be enough.

"I'm not 'fucking around,' to use your eloquence. This was yours to stop." Mello's eyes are diamonds in his skull. "Rod wanted to know where your loyalties laid—same for me. Paranoia pays off, you know that. I guess I haven't saved your ass enough times, Matt—or have you forgotten Andrew?" Mello's lip curls. "He had a hit placed on your head; that job we did--the one where I said we were 'betting' on your performance--was to circumvent it."

"You never told me that," Matt murmured, and, despite the threat poised against his skull, takes another drag of his cigarette. Mello pulls the safety off.

"Are you even listening?" He's not talking about actual words so much as he's referencing the act of comprehension, because Matt is firmly in denial of the situation. It's the safest route, the surest, and the one most likely to piss Mello off--all of which make Matt more than pleased, thankyouverymuch.

Matt regards him steadily. "You've negated the possibility of me  _listening_  from the start of this conversation, Mello. Thank you for it, though."

Mello's eyes flare with a complete and utter lack of understanding; Matt sighs and lets his gaze drift away from Mello's face, all of the cool tension gone slack from his green eyes. They remain like that, locked in a stalemate, for all of fifteen seconds: Matt, his spine gone rigid from the pressure, but his hands and face still slack with indifference; Mello crouching in front of him, his face livid, his hand steady—and the gun, still present between the two.

A phone rings. It takes Matt a second to process the absurd sound; once he does, laughter spills past his lips like the dull patter of rain on tin. Mello, his face closed, carefully fishes into his pocket for his phone with his left hand, then flips the cover open.

"What?" he asks the caller, his voice short. He pauses, listens for a bit, and then murmurs a reply; after snapping the lid shut, he addresses Matt.

"Travis needs our help," he says, pocketing the cell and clicking the safety back on his gun. "His bumbling hacker fucked everything up over there." He stands. "I give your intelligence enough credit, Matt—you're not going to make any idiotic moves today."

Matt looks up at the blonde, then stands as well, leaving them with scant inches between their eyes. "I'm not about to," he says, unexplained irony lacing his words, and he shoulders past Mello to go get his goggles.

Once he gets to the computer room, he snaps them over his head and makes sure that the plastic seals around his eyes. The cigarette is stubbed out and discarded in the trash.

"I'm ready," he says to Mello, and the other nods.

"Fine."


	9. Chapter 9

If Matt had understood what they would come to, when he had first signed on to this, he would not have stayed.

It had all started with his damned apartment. It is burnt, yes. Razed. Crumbling, a skeleton, broken-legged--but standing, still standing, in his mind if nowhere else. It isn't even the apartment so much as...as his  _conception_  of the apartment, the notion of it. A place of his own. He has had dozens of apartments--well, maybe that's a hyperbole, maybe it isn't, but still. He snaps his mind against the tracks, like some perceived elastic band, snaps it and feels the bite of its stretch, sore from misuse and prone to complaining.

Where had he been? Yes. His apartment. It is a notion, it is an image, and it is in his head: small wonder. When he had--left the House, as an easygoing teen discreetly lounging in a stolen first-class seat on a transatlantic flight, he had had...nothing. Strange, strange, given the opulence of his rearing, but true; the apartment, the first one, on the east coast, that had been a milestone. Paid for with stolen money. Ha. But so what if his apartment had been the victim of some arsonist? Why had it driven him to accept Mello's offer?

He turns the events of the night over in his head. Ruminating. His eyes are humming beneath his closed eyelids, twitching with his thoughts, and surely Mello could see them and read their anxiety if he didn't have his eyes on the road. Matt assumes that the other has his eyes on the road--after all, they aren't dead. Yet. He wonders if Mello is drunk; that would explain so much, even if it would place him in a bit of danger, for now. The car murmurs beneath them as the hit a patch of rough road, and he gives up on worrying about it when there are other concerns pressing impatiently on the alleyways of his brain.

It is never a good idea to trust Mello, and he has never fully, completely let his guard down, but he has come close enough to it that his skin is burning with the electricity of fear and shock and numbness; there are sparks dancing across his arms and the lights of Vegas are reflected in the sweat of his pores. He is the court fool, and he knows it--the question, really, is whether or not the jester will find his laugh choked off, or if he will be permitted to waltz out of the court. For now, he is needed. Necessary, just as a shovel might be necessary for digging a hole. For now, Mello will keep him around--he  _will_ , he has no choice, because Matt has a job to do. Beyond that, Matt needs a plan. Who can he run to? Not to Wammy House, to suffer the ignominy of failure, and he has nowhere else that will take him in so readily. He has no network, no friends, no contacts; at his level of mental acuity, social relations aren't his forte. Could he disappear, if he wanted to? Perhaps, perhaps, but he would give himself away eventually. Matt has always possessed a self-destructive element. Self-sabotage is as natural as his cigarettes, as easy as inhaling. He will not last, on his own.

Matt depends on others like old men lean shame-faced on their canes--he  _knows_  that, he knows it, and he has been relying on Mello for too long, and this is what it has earned him: a gun placed against his head. There must be somewhere. Someone.

The answer comes to him, and he feels shame crawling across his face, a slow and steady advance of blood against his cheeks, and he rests his face against the window and prays that Mello is not watching. This, then, is humility. I have been guilty of arrogance, I have sinned, but now my faults are laid out for everyone to see, hung like Christmas ornaments and arrayed for the masses to view and to pick over and to mock.

It has been years since Matt was anyone at all, but it still bites to realize that one is very little more than what others think of you--particularly when those  _others_  aren't exactly on your side.

Sometimes he regrets his upbringing. It would do him good to have friends, now.

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They pull into the warehouse parking lot. The air is crackling with activity--the sound of sneakers clomping on asphalt, the creaking of cardboard boxes as lackeys unload them from trucks and move them through the door, the curt snaps of conversation that break through the air. Travis comes out of the door, his pudgy face sweating as he growls into his phone. His second chin vibrates with his words—prosperity, brought on by Mello's genius interventions within his network, has done little for his physical health.

Mello doesn't look at Matt--just twists his key out with a singe decisive jerk, opens the door, lands on the blacktop with a firm stomp of boots-on-ground. His door doesn't slam, but it does shut; there is a controlled terseness in the action. Matt fumbles with his seat buckle and joins his onetime comrade, trailing behind him as they approach Travis. The man waves them over impatiently, snaps his phone closed, and starts talking immediately, words dripping from his flapping lips like muddy water from a trough. "It's all Badger," he says, crossing the distance between them in quick strides. "I had him set up in one of the other spots, trying to crack the local police system--they'd been doing sweeps real regular, and I wanted to see if we could get a schedule or scramble their sensors or  _anything_ , just get a feel around for what he could do. I told him not to do anything stupid, obviously, just to sniff a bit--"

"Are you crazy?" Mello demands, all arrogance and confidence brimming against the seams of his leather. Outrageous. That's a word for Mello; he's too used to getting his way. "He got caught, didn't he? I  _told_  you, don't mess with government stuff; that's just plain  _idiotic_ —"

"I realize that, okay?" Travis throws his hands up. "He got caught,  _yes_ , and we don't know whether or not there's anyone heading down to check out the minor base—"

Mello swears, and Matt shifts his weight away from him. There is heat radiating from Mello's skin, rising in blistering waves, threatening to swamp any passersby and wash them out to sea. Matt speaks up. "I can check. It's...fine. Stupid on Badger's part, but I can fix it." He glances at Mello. "Keys? My duffel's in the trunk."

Mello throws them at him without looking and goes right back to arguing. "I asked you to leave all of the advanced work to Matt. Badger isn't worth the oxygen it takes to keep his lungs wheezing, much less the resources that you..."

He tunes it out and trots over to the car; it's an old model, discreet and battered, so its trunk doesn't open with a click of a button. He heaves the door open and begins rooting in his duffel bag, pulling out his system, piece by piece, like a surgeon at an operating table, lifting the organs from a bleeding shell. His router picks up the warehouse system immediately--he's been here before--and Matt gets to work, just like that, taking a seat in the trunk of Mello's car with his back pressed against the curve of molded plastic and his fingers crouched on the keys of his little laptop.

The police network in Vegas is surprisingly sophisticated--or at least, it is now. Times were that they could break in and tamper at will, but the system was updated, what, two months ago? Three? Not too long, at any rate, but long enough that Badger should have  _known_. Incompetence is a disgusting thing.

Matt slips his metaphorical toes in the door cautiously, moving by millimeters. No tripped wires so far. He explores a bit, gets a handle for the way the thing is set up, and then begins a careful, selective burrowing, disabling alarms as he goes while he tries to figure out just what exactly Badger did. This is delicate stuff--screw up, and they're even worse off than before--but Matt doesn't exactly plan on screwing up. So Mello doesn't give a shit about Travis's actual well-being--Matt doesn't either, but priorities have to be maintained. Both of them are playing a fine game, and the truth is seeping from their skin like blood from a hemophiliac, and honesty is running out just as quickly as that salty elixir; slice just beneath the surface, and the lies will come tumbling.

Lies upon lies upon lies. Mello has some gall--he's arguing with Travis about  _why didn't you trust me,_ and  _I thought that you listened to my recommendations_ , and the like. As if he _cares,_  as if he only has Travis's best interests at heart. Well, he does, doesn't he?

Doing his best is, for Matt, a reflexive action. Listening to Mello now, it occurs to him that perhaps he  _shouldn't_  be doing his best, that maybe he shouldn't be helping Travis at all--he can't stay here, which means that in Travis's eyes, he'll be turning in traitor. His fingers continue their grim trails across the keys. No. He has to figure this out, as much for his own safety as for Travis's; if the cops come calling, he wants some advanced notice. As for  _why_  Travis felt inclined to force them to haul everything over here for a job that he could have worked just fine remotely, well, that's just plain annoying. Matt suspects that he had just wanted to have Mello around for when he deals with Badger. Mello is rather talented at terrorizing guys twice his size; there's a malevolent aura about him that just sends instinctive chills down the necks of those he chooses to attack.

Matt, hacker, jack-of-all trades, lackey--he's dismissed. Hard at work, he gives nobody a reason to disturb him, and they carry on talking.

It takes some time, but Matt finishes. "Done," he calls, craning his head out of the trunk. Mello and Travis have carried their conversation to the edge of the lot, still deep in discussion. Mello's head snaps up; the pair sprint over to see his results.

"About time," he rasps. "What's the news?"

His voice sounds like it's been stretched too far, and the pitch is something like violin strings shrieking as they're pulled over metal. Matt winces and turns back to his display. "You're fine," he says, delivering his report dutifully. He can't say that he's happy to have done this. "I figured out how the reporter system works--they had a chance to catch Badger's address, but they didn't go far enough to find out anything beyond the general neighborhood before his system crashed, and they just  _stopped_  after that. Nobody at the station's realized that there was even an attempt yet. It's not monitored--they've got better uses of manpower, probably--and it sends a report in at the end of the day. I wiped the incident from the logs, so you ought to be free from that. And...I guess that's it. You're clear."

Travis nods. "Thanks, Matt. I'll be doling out a bonus for this, I suppose." Despite his calm words, there's sweat beading in his pores; Matt can smell its acrid odor. Travis turns to Mello. "See? I told you everything would work out fine."

"I won't be forgetting it," Mello says. "Nevertheless, you've got my thanks. This won't be happening again, I assume?"

Matt silently fits his goggles over his head and seals himself behind the plastic. The conversation has already passed him. His job is done.

"I hope not," Travis says, a light seasoning of sarcasm coating an otherwise serious remark. "If it does, you'll be the first to know, I assure you."

"Sorry about Badger." There's an ironic note in Mello's voice now. They keep talking, discussing vague things that don't seem to concern him. Matt stares at a point somewhere off in the distance, letting his mind wander; after a few moments of letting the conversation ebb and flow, he slips away and begins packing up his duffel, running calculations through his head as he goes. Can he carry this on foot? Sure, but it'll attract attention--and possibly thieves--besides the fact that it'll get heavy after a while. And his stuff needs to be handled tenderly anyhow. A cab, then. He can afford a cab. His earnings--wages from Travis, some cash from other jobs, his casino winnings--have accumulated to a nice little sum over the months. Funds in banks, of course, aren't always readily accessible, so he's got a healthy amount in his back pocket and sewn into the linings of his cases. So that's good.

While he sits in the trunk, legs dangling out and feet kicking in the open air like some gangly toddler who's too short for his chair, they keep talking. That's fine. So he plots, and he plans, and finally Mello comes over and says, "You want to get in the seat, or you going to ride the whole way like that?"

Matt doesn't respond, just stands up, hunched in the back of the car, and vaults over the backs of the seats. Behind him, Mello snorts and slams the trunk closed. Matt straps in and waits. Once they're on the road, driving steadily towards the heart of the city, he speaks up, looking out the window as he does so.

"So, you're keeping me around after all?"

Silence on the other end. Matt glances over after a long pause. Mello keeps his expression deliberately blank, his eyes on the road. "We'll see, Matt." He exhales slowly. "Good job today."

"I don't see why you had to loiter so long," Matt returns, ignoring the empty compliment. "Is Travis's conversation  _really_  that interesting? He seems kind of thick to me."

A smile tugs reluctantly at Mello's lips. "No, it isn't, and he is. But--I actually  _do_  have reasons for my actions, believe it or not," he says, absently tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind his ear. "You'll see."

Matt digests this information, nods, and slouches back in his seat. Time will expound on the meaning Mello's words; if it doesn't, it doesn't really matter anyhow.

They get to the apartment, and Mello locks himself in his room as if it's business as usual between them. Matt stares at the closed door for a moment, then gathers his things. Within a half-hour, he is ready, a duffel slung across his back and all of his identities--birth certificates, passports, the like--kept on his person, though he doubts that he'll be using them for long. Mail Jeevas never existed; Matthew Flanning is as good as dead. He lights a cigarette, balancing the lighter clumsily in his left hand thanks to the duffel strap clutched in his right, and looks around. He's wasted enough time here, abiding by Mello's rules. Defying them lights a childish glee deep within the annals of his mind.

From the outside, at night, he looks at the building. The glow of a never-dark city brushes gray against its walls. Clean, pristine; this is a nice part of town. The architecture is only describable as ugly, especially in the dim light: sharp lines and thoughtless angles, maltreated by some tactless developer who used the real estate values as a crutch. The inhabitants keep to themselves--there are no "neighbors," only fellow tenants. It's a cold building.

It's time.

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He leaves, hails a cab, gets out at the airport, and walks in, discarding his cigarette in a trash bin beforehand. The faceless travelers rushing by pay no heed to a slouching teenager; those sitting impatiently in the gates and in the halls give his goggles a few odd looks, and he pulls them off as he walks and stuffs them in his vest pocket. The duffel already makes him look out of place; he doesn't need to draw any more attention to himself than absolutely necessary. Without the plastic screening his vision, the fluorescent lights are much too bright.

So many people. It takes all of his discipline to keep his head down, to keep moving as if he has a destination in mind. He wants to stare--to gawk--to take in the spinning tide of flesh and blood that tumbles along the edges of his vision, but he won't. He has that much self-control. He finds a crowded gate and settles himself in a discreet corner, out of sight of the main hall. His hands lie dormant on his knees; he has nothing to do. No buttons to press, no keys to pound, no cigarettes to light--they're banned here. His fingers press and knead against his kneecap, feeling out the bone.

_What am I doing here?_

It won't take Mello long to notice his absence. It won't. Tomorrow morning, if he gets very, very lucky, but Matt...Matt doubts that. No, Mello probably knew exactly what he would do.

 _Will he come for me?_  More importantly, will he come with a gun, or with supplications? Or, more likely, will he simply stay away? Not a surrender, but a truce, an armistice. They can both survive that.

When the stewardess starts the call to board, he gets up and moves to another gate. He can't stay here forever, but--he doesn't want to place the call that will get him out of here.

This problem has had a simple solution from the start; he's just been ignoring it. He needs someone to toil under--and who else will fit the job, but someone well used to wielding his superiority?

The number he needs is stored, not in his contact list, but in his memory; months and months ago he stored it away in the archives of his mind, and he's pleased by the sharp recall that brings it immediately to the forefront of his thoughts. It's one that he hasn't called before, but he knows that the person on the other end will answer just the same. He sinks into the flimsy plastic chair, willing himself to disappear, but it doesn't happen. The normal force is true to its nature; the chair continues to push back against him, sustaining his raised position. The floor will not be swallowing him today.

Just because he needs to do it doesn't mean that this is easy, but it will be done. He's tried the whole start-a-new-life thing before, and it hasn't exactly worked out. He hadn't been content--that's why he'd followed Mello onto this coast. Still. He isn't proud.

The dial tone cuts off; there is a ripe silence while the other side waits. Matt speaks. "Hey," he says, staring at his feet. He doesn't bother infusing his voice with the feigned confidence that comes so naturally. "You think you could come? I've cut and run."

Near pauses on the other end. "Is he coming for you?"

Near. Matt swallows the tightness in his throat and tries to read into his voice, but as usual, he's got a complete mastery of his apathetic mask. It's no good. He's throwing himself bodily into the game, and there's no going back; regardless of how Near speaks or acts, he's here to stay. They all are.

"Hell if I know," Matt answers. "I don't think so."

Another hesitation as Near considers this, then: "This signal is traceable?"

"You know it's not," Matt replies, annoyed. "I haven't fallen that far yet. I'm at the airport. Call me when you get here--I'm not sticking at one gate."

"I'll send Amanda over," Near says crisply. "Thank you, Matt."

They hang up simultaneously, and Matt presses his palm to his eyes. His skin is searing--hot from stress or something else, he doesn't know. He doesn't know what Near was thanking him for, either, but he supposes that that's all right.

With a sigh, he lets his hand drop and studies the warped lines crossing across his palms. If he was a cheap psychic, he'd claim to be able to read the future there, set in skin rather than stone but just as inevitable--but that's one thing he knows to be untrue, at least. It's his own stupid choices that rule his life--not the patterns imprinted in his skin.

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When Near calls again, Matt mouths directions into the speaker and stands to meet Amanda as she strides into the gate, all click-clacking heels and cherry lipstick and  _blonde hair._  He looks at her, and she folds her arms over her chest and smiles.

"Surprised?" she inquires, her lips curving in that sardonic smile, and Matt shrugs. Trust Near to outfit his followers with disguises, just for the sake of deceiving Matt. Mello. Whatever. The sharply cut blonde hair looks much more natural on her, now that he bothers to examine it; the brown curls from earlier were far too relaxed. It didn't suit her.

"I like the change," he says aloud, and she just keeps smiling.

"He's waiting in the car," she says, eyes flicking from his baggy eyes to his stuffed duffel to his slumping posture. "Want me to help you with--"

"No," he interrupts, "that's fine. I'm fine. I'm a big boy, Mommy." He snorts. "Which lot is he in?"

Amanda shrugs. "K lot. It's on--"

"Second level? East?"

"Yes."

"Good," Matt says, satisfied. "Let's go, shall we?"

Amanda nods. They depart--him with his duffel weighing on his shoulder, looking as if he's been run through a washer, and her, with her crisp attire and formal presence. Well. Whatever.

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Near is starkly outlined against the black leather of the limousine. The cushioned interior hugs his body like a cloak, enfolding him in its silent grasp. The elegance of his surroundings doesn't match the white pajamas pooling around his limbs in wrinkled folds, but if Near is bothered by this, he gives no sign. He looks perfectly at ease with his arm draped over the side rest—better, even, as if he views this as  _his_  domain. Certainly, there is an air of authority about him that ripples around his very being, flooding the car with a stifling sense of _smallness._  Matt feels small. Near is no longer the small, feeble boy of their shared childhood; he has grown, and while he isn't  _tall_ , he has substance. There have been changes, even in the interval since their last meeting. Confidence brims from his skin, and it makes Matt wonder what sort of changes have been wrought on  _his_  image since leaving the House.

Amanda rides shotgun, sliding in next to the aged driver, and Matt finds himself alone with Near in the back, darkened glass cutting them off from the rest of the world.

Near greets him with that half-moon smile, his cheeks pushing upward ever so slightly. "I must confess my surprise, Matt," he says. The limousine moves forward with a gentle lurch, and indistinct shapes muddle past through the glass. Near hasn't mentioned any destination. "I hadn't expected your call."

"Same for me." Even though that's a lie, even though they've both been well-trained in the arts of deception and detection, he pulls it off well enough. His tension could easily be read for something else—after all, Matt has enough worries to sink a ship. He sinks into the soft cushioning across from Near. Christ. Is all of this opulence necessary? Him and Mello both—they're addicted to their surroundings.

"Drink?" There's a miniature fridge tucked into the wall; Matt politely declines the offer. Near nods and moves on. "Pleasantries aside—I am glad to see you, honestly, but I would greatly appreciate some candor. Why call me now, when I've solicited your help before?"

"I've—" He hasn't rehearsed this part; a prettily worded speech will fool nobody. Far better to hesitate, to preserve the illusion of authenticity. "Mello and I have some…differences, ones that won't be reconciled easily. I refused to get embroiled in something that wasn't my fight, and he took offense." He pauses, suddenly aware of Near's dilated eyes studying his, and forces self-assurance back into his voice. "Well, not offense, exactly. He just…wasn't pleased with me. So I left."

"And you called me?" Near's lips laugh underneath the words, though his voice remains solemn.

Matt shrugs. "I didn't have much of a choice, Near." There. Lay it all on the table, flaunt your weaknesses, wear them like medallions—it will win him much with Near. The boy has always possessed a practical streak, a fascination with molding others to fit his will while simultaneously granting their wishes. Matt doesn't like being used—it's painful, degrading, disgusting. But—in this case, he doesn't have much of a choice, and if Near deems him useful, pride be damned.

 _Setting up another false contract with another child prodigy. Little genius, are you?_ He's digging his own grave.

_I can't help it. It's natural._

"It was about his latest alliance, wasn't it?" Near asks. Growing light drops a distorted shadow across the right side of his face, half-hiding the grim twist of his mouth. They're out in the open, again. Matt watches the malformed shapes of their surroundings through the window, wondering. They could be going anywhere.

"Which one?" he returns, determined to play at this, sarcasm creeping into his tone. "What, Travis? Or Rod?"

"The mafia," says Near, "which I assume you meant when you said 'Rod.' Thank you."

Again with the thanks! It surprises him, how readily he yields Mello's information, but—there might be more judicious uses of it. Bartering. He needs to learn when to shut up. That's what Near's thank-yous mean, really. The limousine stops; they must be in traffic, because it starts up again with a quiet grunt.

Near ignores the limousine's temperament, of course. His mouth returns to its typical position: firmly set, solemn, as he refocuses on the matter at hand. "He wanted you involved in his latest escapade, did he not?"

"I don't know what it was." There. Blunt frankness, or a blunt lie: Near won't know for sure how to interpret it. "But it was dangerous."

"It was," Near acknowledges. "I've been—"

"Keeping tabs on him," says Matt. "Yes. I know."

"As you've been watching me." The half-smile returns. "Good work fetching my cell number, by the way. It was quite a feat."

"Not really," Matt says dryly. "You're not careful enough."

"Perhaps," Near allows. "But—this latest project of his. It involves Kira—is that why you turned it down?"

"Not really."  _Yes._  "I didn't think it was my place, sure, but he wouldn't tell me what it was, besides the fact that it was life-threatening, and he gave me no incentives; what kind of idiot would take that sort of offer? I balked."

"Obviously." Near leans forward and rests his hands on his knees. "Matt, you must understand that my work is also in the catching of Kira, even if our methodologies differ. If you were trying to remove yourself from our competition—"

There! He has it: acknowledgment, straight from the adder's mouth, that that's what it's  _really_  about. Forget petty rules and virtues and justifications; this is little more than a parlor game, where winning is all that counts.

"I know," he says now. "I know. What I'm saying to you, Near—why I came here—is because  _I want in_." He looks Near in the eyes, matching bright green to wide black. "I want to join the competition," he says, enunciating each syllable, curling the vowels in his throat and snapping the consonants. "And I'm not doing this on my own. But neither are you—either of you. You guys are going to have to collaborate, eventually; you won't be able to catch Kira with a one-sided approach. Kira's as smart as any of us, maybe smarter: he killed  _L_." He stresses the sound, presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he hits the consonant.  _Ell._  Such a powerful little letter—gone. "You're going to need me, Near, one way or the other, even if all you need is my agreement not to interfere."

Near looks at him. Studies him. His broad pupils inhale the nuances and details of his little speech, ferreting out the likely lies and dissecting the probably truths.

"Very well," he says. "Welcome to the team."

So now he has a place in the game, their game. It's existed since the dawn of their collective consciousness, and he was a fool to think that he could get out of it; it will continue to exist so long as they weave their thoughts and minds and lives in and out upon their shared loom, for as long as they maintain the intertwined nature of their selves. They each have their freedom, sure, but only within the confines of the game's slave-collar grip. To actually be free—he has to embrace it, like a snake swallowing a crocodile to keep itself from being devoured, even if it ends up shredding him from the inside out.

Where there should be relief sighing in Matt's chest, there is only an empty acknowledgement; he is part of a team, part of a game. Time to start again.


	10. Chapter 10

They arrive in Manhattan after a brief, uneventful plane ride. Another limousine is waiting for them, and Matt watches as the world rushes by through the tinted glass. There are so, so many pedestrians, and it strikes him that New York actually has inhabitants.

"Why New York?" he asks, to break the silence. Near smiles in that bland, careful way of his—more a grimace than anything else, but Matt knows that Near  _means_ it to be a smile, and therefore accepts it at face value.

"Because," Near replies, "I was only in Las Vegas in order to track down a few things. I have what I wanted now." He pauses. "Las Vegas is…less pleasant. Maintaining my headquarters in New York is easier."

Matt turns his head to look out the window again. Near falls silent, but Matt can feel the broad, dilated eyes resting on his skin. Amanda is in the front seat again, invisible behind the limo's partition.

His hands are trembling in his lap like the vibrating strings of a violin, and Matt stares at them and wonders who is playing him like a fiddle this time.

The limousine pulls into a dark parking garage. Near, Amanda, and Matt all step out of the car. Amanda gives him a small smile; Matt tries to return it, but he feels his face cracking as he does so. "Come," Near announces, and they follow him out into the blazing sunlight and then into a nondescript office building.

Inside, the cheerfully-decorated lobby is empty, the receptionist's desk unattended. Near approaches a door labeled JANITOR'S CLOSET and places his palm on the wall next to it. "N," he says aloud. A red light flashes beneath the yellow paint, and the door clicks open.

The JANITOR'S CLOSET, as Matt expected, holds no brooms, no mops. Instead, it opens to a metal stairwell. Near turns his head and smiles. "Welcome to headquarters," he says.

101010101010101

"Headquarters" is located on the basement floor, in a dim, windowless room filled with glowing screens and office chairs. There are other rooms, too, all filled with similar setups, but the cluster of people in this room makes it clear that this is where things  _happen._  The dartboards and toy robots and train sets strewn throughout the room are a good heads-up, too. The gathered agents look up as the trio enters. "Near," one of them says, a man with short-cropped hair and faint lines emerging on his open face. "Did the trip go well?"

Near smiles and walks calmly down the last few steps. "Yes," he says. "And I have brought someone with me. This is Matt."

Five pairs of eyes snap up towards him, and Matt tries not shift uncomfortably. These agents are a far cry from his usual cohorts; they look  _sharp_ , clean, with well-pressed suits instead of guns and leather. All are male; Amanda must be the only woman on the force.

"Welcome to the Special Provision for Kira, then," says the first man. "I am Commander Rester. Near, could you explain…?"

"Of course." Near takes his place at the table in the center of the room, shadowed by Amanda; Matt leans against the stair banister and meets the guarded eyes of Near's underlings. "Matt was previously in Los Angeles, working on his own. He has requested to join the task force." Near hesitates. "He and I are…old acquaintances. I will vouch for his intelligence. He will be an asset, particularly in the realm of technology."

"That's it, then?" one of them asks. Matt takes him in with one visual sweep: dark hair, lithe body, the crooked tilt to his eyes that suggests he is less upright than, say, Rester. "He's in?"

"Yes, Gevanni." Near says flatly. "Do you protest?"

Silence. Near dips his head a little, and even from behind Matt knows that there's a half-smirk playing across his face. He speaks again, businesslike authority ringing through his voice. "In that case, I believe introductions are in order. Matt, these are Commander Anthony Rester, Stephen Gevanni, Steve Mason, Ellickson Gardner, and Ill Ratt." He points at each in turn. "John is not here, as he is doing field work at the moment; you are already acquainted with Halle, though you know her by her alias."

Amanda— _Halle_ —gives him a crooked, lipstick-cake smile. "That's me," she says. Purrs, almost. It sends goosebumps rippling along his arms.

"Ellickson, escort Matt to the residential level and establish him there. He can take one of the stations here for his work—though, on a second thought, Matt, perhaps we can bring a table for you to set up your custom system?"

"I'd prefer that, yeah," he says. Near nods.

"For today, then, you'll use the spare workstation. Ellickson, set him up; Rester, I want the latest briefings."

One of the agents breaks from the group and nods to Matt. "Mr. Ellickson, I presume," Matt says, slipping into his native British accent for humor's sake.

"My first name," the man says, "so, no, actually." He's old, with an enormous bald patch and an unpleasantly hooked nose. "Follow me."

Matt obeys. Follow this, follow that; if this is how his time with the SPK is going to be, he'll need to shake them up a bit.

Even in his head, the words fall flat.

* * *

At the end of the day, Matt curls up on his bed and plays his Gameboy.

It's been a while since he's indulged himself, and his skills have slipped. Not by much, not by enough for it to be a disaster, but he feels rusty. The buttons stick beneath his thumbs and his arm is going numb from sitting crunched up for too long.

_Die, monster, die._

Today would have been monstrously boring, if Matt could bring himself to care. Briefings on the SPK's current leads, explanations of which systems they're already burrowed into and where Near wants him to plant feelers next. The trust Near automatically places on him is startling, at first, but then Matt realizes that albino boy just isn't worried. It's obvious why: what he's doing isn't just a step ahead of Mello's work. It's a hundred. He knows so much about their suspect— _someone in Japan, involved with the police, knew L_ (oh how reverently he pauses after the name), _deeply connected with the case, a god complex…L solved it…_

Near has his toy soldiers standing at their posts in Japan and New York and Los Angeles and all over the world, and he is truly L's successor, and Mello honest-to-goodness doesn't seem like a threat now that Matt has caught a glimpse of  _this_  operation.

 _It's a puzzle, that's all_ , and how simply Near says the words.  _It's a puzzle._  And then there is that fierce gleam in his eye, the look of true exhilaration that Matt has so rarely seen from the albino, and even though his face is blank his dark eyes are incapable of mistruths.

Hours later, and Matt is playing video games. His cell phone is by his side, fully charged. It's been silent. He wonders if that should worry him.

His pixilated avatar fails the jump, and Matt mashes the A button over and over again even though he's already plummeting to his death. "Damn," he whispers.

It's funny, he thinks; this is so much like the orphanage. He knows that Near is probably sleeping somewhere in this building, too, as is Commander Rester; as for the others, he isn't yet sure. And once again there are little competitions, puzzles, games to be won. The only difference is that the stakes are higher, and Near is probably the only ones who sees it as a game. Matt doesn't care enough to make it one, and the others are too melodramatically involved; their heartstrings are tied up in Kira's web. If they know that it's a  _game_  to Near, they ignore it, because to them it's a demeaning word, an insulting word.

They have no idea.

The others are in it because this is the hunt for a murderer, because of their blinding sense of justice or for the sake of revenge or because they are simply humans, protecting what they know to be right. Regardless, they speak of Kira as a killer: monster disgusting bastard evil egomaniac fool, slur after slur after slur. He (she? they?) is a  _murderer_ , at least to the SPK.

The GAME OVER screen flashes in big bold letters, and he hits RESTART and begins again. Infinite lives. Infinite do-overs, even if you can't get exactly back to an exact moment in time. His thumbs smack against the sticky buttons.

Kira is a murderer.

Matt struggles to frame him in those terms. Who has he killed, after all? Criminals. Matt brushes away that one easily; after all, that was L's job, too, even if he didn't sully his own hands, and Mello does it without any moral scruples whatsoever. Who else? Innocents who stand in his way. That's too abstract for it to matter. L? Matt waits, listens. The Gameboy emits 16-bit sound and his conscience doesn't stir.

This time his character makes the leap over the void, and he survives, keeps running, keeps hacking away, fingers dancing over A and B and the D-pad.

The rage doesn't come. When he thinks of Kira, there is no anger, no disgust. Unlike the other SPK members, Matt is not in this because of Kira.

It's always been about Mello. Mello Mello Mello, the boy with the blonde hair and the chocolate who could never stop screaming or working or  _moving_ , because he needed to beat Near, beat everyone.

And now, finally, his vision clouds and he slams his hand on the START button just as the tears begin to trickle down his cheeks. He's crying, as if he's six years old at the orphanage, alone and hungry and friendless, except this time he doesn't even know  _who_  or  _what_  he's crying for.

Mello is hundreds of miles away and Mello has threatened him, used him, nearly killed him. And Matt let it happen. And now he's run away, but joining the SPK is no escape, and he doesn't give a damn about fixing the world any more than Near does.

His smokers' lungs heave with stifled sobs, and Matt bites the pillow, thinking over and over again: god  _damn_ it, god  _damn_  it, because some things you just can't escape.

 _Chasing Mello is like chasing a dragon,_  he'd thought once, all those days ago, just after he'd learned that the blonde terror was in Vegas.  _Like chasing a dragon._  If only he'd known.

* * *

The next morning, he awakes to Halle banging on his door. "Matt," she calls. "Get up."

He groans and fumbles for his goggles. In the dim lighting of the SPK headquarters they're a bit impractical, but he likes to live in a separate world. He's still wearing his clothes from last night, and his right leg prickles with the pins and needles of sleep. He lurches over to the door and yanks it open. " _What?_ "

Halle matches his gaze with pale, gold-green eyes. "Well," she says, "you look like you slept well." Matt doesn't answer, and after a few moments she sighs and says, "Near is out for a meeting with our dear president, but he's left you some work. Get…dressed, showered, whatever. There's a kitchen on this floor if you want food. Just be in the main room in forty minutes."

"Fine." Matt closes the door and leans his head against it. He has a headache.

It's probably because he hasn't smoked yet, but that can be rectified later. For now, he needs a shower.

The bathroom is hotel-sterile, but at least it has a good mirror. He leans forward and studies his face. The bones of his skull are becoming more pronounced every day, it seems. His eyes are dry, thank god—except, wait, this twisted world has no omnipotent caretaker, does it? Thank-his-own-body, then.

He smiles as the hot jets hit his face.

101010101010101

The main room is quiet, save for the clacking of keys and the whispers shifting fabric. The SPK members are quiet, calm, serious. This is  _business_.

Halle takes off a headset and smiles at him, ruby lips smashing into a curving line. "The list is at your desk," she murmurs.

"Thanks." Matt can't help but feel that he has so much less grace than these men or Halle as he slumps into the stiff chair and opens his laptop. He can feel Halle's eyes watching him.

" _What?"_  he hisses, turning around. She shakes her head and goes back to her own work. The other task members don't even look up. Matt mutters a few complaints under his breath and picks up Near's list.

He needs a direct, private cell line established, one that nobody but Near (and Matt, he presumes) will be able to access, for the purposes of receiving information.

The NPA's database has eluded them for some time. He needs to retrieve information from early on in the Kira case.

A select group of NPA officers are assigned to the Kira case at present; if possible, their network should be compromised as well. Near notes that this may well be extremely dangerous and that it will require the utmost caution.

The list continues, and Matt can't help but grin, because this is real stuff, fun stuff. For the final assignment, Near notes that the mafia's computer system is unusually secure. Matt is not required to hack it (unlock it?) unless he wishes to do so.

Matt can't help it; he starts to laugh. The other SPK members exchange bewildered looks behind his back and he lights a cigarette, not caring if any of them start to protest.

101010101010101

Near comes back a few hours later with Commander Rester following two steps behind. The SPK members spin in their chairs to face them. "We're official," Near announces to the room. "The president has  _kindly_  agreed to establish the SPK." He's smiling.

Grins and chuckles ensue, and Matt raises an eyebrow; this is the most emotion he's seen from the tense group all day. "You mean that you invented the SPK?" he asks dryly. "You just snatched the best and brightest without  _asking_?"

"The president is a coward and a fool," Near says. "I work with the intelligence agencies. The FBI and the CIA are far from perfect, but it's simpler to ask them than to force a decision from our spineless chief executive." He sits down in the middle of the floor. The table that was there yesterday has been moved; in its place is the toy train set. Near crouches in the middle of it and lifts one of the trains into the air. "Besides, it's better to act first and apologize later, don't you think?"

Near sets the train down on the tracks and begins to make it zoom around and around, circle after circle. The motions are the same as ever, but Matt's not stupid; he knows that it's merely a way for Near to distract his body, that true mind is working feverishly while its flesh-bound casing is busy elsewhere.

Matt goes back to work on the NPA database.

101010101010101

That night, his phone rings. The caller ID gives him the standard UNIDENTIFIABLE NUMBER crap, but he flips it open anyway and lets the silence speak for him. It's not like there's a question of who it's going to be.

"Matt," the familiar voice says. The word is tight, terse, but it is neither sighed nor spat.

Matt already has a cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes a puff and waits.

"Matt," the voice says again, crackling over the poor cell connection. "You coward. Speak up."

"I'm here," he says quietly.

Then the explosion starts. "So you're there after all," Mello snarls. "You motherfucking traitor, of  _all_  the places you could have gone, you go to  _him_." He spits the last word out like it's a suicide capsule. "Do you have any idea what that means to me?"

"I think I do," Matt says. He cradles the phone against his shoulder and takes another drag and smiles. He hadn't thought about that, honestly, but of  _course_  this is the cruelest thing he could have done. Mello and his inferiority complexes. Why didn't he think of this before?

"Matt, this oversteps  _every_  line, you know that? Like I needed any more proof that you're a coward, a traitor—"

"You're not in a position to be insulting me," Matt interrupts. Somehow he manages to keep his voice level. "Why did I leave, Mello?" Another pause, another smoke-filled breath. "You tell me."

Mello goes quiet, and Matt gives a bitter laugh. "Yeah," he says. "That's what I thought."

"You had no right to do this."

"I had  _every_  right. Since when am I your pet, Mel? Your trained code monkey? 'Cause that's what you needed me for, right? You haven't done a damned thing that would have made it worth risking my life." Matt can feel his voice rising now, but he doesn't bother stopping. "You can't order me to put my life on the line and get pissed when I say no. Maybe you should try remembering what it's like to be human."

"I wouldn't have pulled the trigger," Mello says softly.

The words hit him like a veteran griefing a level one noob, and Matt closes his eyes as the memories surge. Breathes. The pain is there, too close to the surface, and now more than ever, he needs to be careful.

"Liar," he manages to bite out.

"I'm not." Mello breathes against the phone. "Come back. Please."

"Oh, and I just  _forget_  the gun to my head?"

"You're scared." Whatever sympathy was in his previous words, it's gone now; the statement rings flat and stale, like copper in the air. "You're scared of me, aren't you? That's why you ran to Near."

"Mello—" Matt begins angrily, but the blonde cuts him off.

Stiffly: "No. You're right; I acted irrationally. Good-bye, Matt."

"Don't you  _dare_ —"

But then it's too late, and he's yelling at a dial tone.

Matt sits on the bed, stares at his phone, and smokes his cigarette until the stub falls from his fingers and crumbles against the perfect-beige carpet.

 _So_ , he thinks wryly,  _this is what it feels like to be punched in the gut._

101010101010101

He doesn't sleep; instead, he walks out of the building. He's already entered his data into the security system, so getting back in won't be an issue.

He wonders if Near will notice.

Manhattan never sleeps. Even at midnight, there are people walking, talking, laughing, crying. There are the homeless sleeping on sewer grates and in doorways, young couples huddling together under awnings, yellow taxicabs speeding down the roads. The air smells like sweat and smoke and garbage. He breathes it in.

He's staring like a tourist, and he knows it, but for a moment he wants to drink in every detail, every smell and sight and sound. He needs to make these moments  _his_.

Not for the first time, he wonders who he is.

101010101010101

One day, Halle is there when Matt steps out of his room. He raises an eyebrow; it's too early for the other members to be here yet. "What's up?" he asks, thankful that today, at least, he threw on proper clothes before going to the kitchen.

"I was wondering…" and here Halle hesitates, and it's so out of character that Matt stares at her, "You worked with Mello, didn't you?"

Matt's lips tighten. "Yes," he said.

"What was he like?"

His eyes flutter closed and he can feel Halle's eyes on him. The pain is twisting in his gut again.

"He's a bastard," Matt says finally. "A brilliant, cocky bastard." He pauses and opens his eyes, meets Halle's gaze.

"You were close," she says.

Matt nods. "Yeah," he says. "We were."

101010101010101

Kira has moved beyond the internet. The whispers have evolved, transformed, and no people speak of him openly, in coffee shops, on sidewalks, in their houses. Hearing people talk about Kira makes the SPK members tense. As for Near, he builds dice towers and card castles and plays with his robots.

Names and pictures spew onto the internet. Some are real criminals; others are simply the victims of grudges. Kira becomes a threat, the bogeyman, but with real, terrifying powers. People clamor for Kira's judgment. The word  _killer_  becomes a prayer.

Kira, Kira, Kira.

It is no longer a thing of shame.  _Justice_  is a twisted word, and the police struggle to maintain their strength as  _Kira_  steals their role from them. Crime plummets. The calls for Kira's wrath grow louder each day, each week, each month.

The new L is doing a horrendous job. The real L— _N_ —is the true investigator now. He knows about the Death Note, and while they haven't recovered any of L's notes, Matt knows that the picture is resolving itself. The blank puzzle pieces are being fit together, slowly, slowly.

And through it all, Matt sits at his desk in the dim glowing room of the SPK headquarters, doing what Near asks, pouring his energy into the world of white code on black screens and ignoring everything else. He doesn't build a rapport with the other members; he has no energy for that.

His cell phone rings like clockwork every week. He ignores it.

He doesn't know why he's working the case. It doesn't matter. It's something to do.

And, besides—maybe  _these_  people will remember him.

He stays up late every night, filling the room with smoke until his eyes water, and then he heads to his bedroom and plays old video games until his body forces itself into sleep. Kira's influence spreads like a disease, and the more he grows, the more indifferent Matt becomes, and the harder he works.c

101010101010101

Near sends John McEnroe to Japan to retrieve the NPA's Death Note—"I do not trust this  _new_  L," he hisses. Matt is listening in with the rest of them when Yagami bellows, "Where have you taken the director?"

It all comes out quickly; the NPA's director has been kidnapped, and the kidnappers are demanding the Death Note in return for his safety. But the Death Note is such a closely kept secret—

A mole, Matt realizes, at the same time everyone else does. Near looks at him thoughtfully as McEnroe and Yagami continue their conversation. Sweat beads on Matt's neck.

 _I didn't do anything_.

Not that it matters, really, because Near's look says:  _It's Mello_ , and Matt's unspoken reply is:  _You're right._

Time to up the stakes.


	11. Chapter 11

"You," one of the agents growls as soon as McEnroe is done talking to Yagami. Matt looks up. It's Ill Ratt. Matt bites back a grin; he knows what's coming.

"What?" he counters.

"Isn't it obvious?" The man raises his hand and points at Matt. "Near brings you in here and vouches for you, but the rest of us have no clue who you are. And for some outside group to get such secret information—"

"Enough," Near interjects. His tone brooks no argument, and Ratt lowers his arm, though his scowl remains. "I have my suspicions," Near continues, "but they do not include Matt. The task at hand is to work the situation to our advantage." He pauses and switches on the link with McEnroe, effectively dismissing the issue. "Can you talk?" he asks the transmitter.

"Yes, sir," comes the answer.

"Offer our assistance to the NPA. We still need the note. Should they agree to relinquish it, fine. However, they will need to make arrangements for the transfer. Should you have the opportunity, take it."

"Yes, sir," McEnroe says again.

Near switches the transmitter off and turns to look at the SPK members. "The stalemate," he says, "is ending. We need to research these kidnappers and figure out how to intercept the note. Remember, our top priority is the apprehension of Kira."

His voice is calm, clear, ringing with the authority of a genius. The SPK does as he says.

* * *

At the end of the day, the members head home, except for Rester, Near, and Matt. Near is staring at a box of matches in his lap; as is his custom, he sits on the floor. "Commander Rester?" he asks softly.

"Yes, sir?" the man asks. Gently. The gentleness still surprises Matt; how can anyone find the albino boy  _relatable_? Does the commander fancy Near a child?

"Some time alone, if you would," Near says.

The FBI agent nods stiffly and walks out, leaving the two child prodigies together in the room. Matt immediately spins around and pulls his goggles off. "Near," he says.

The boy sighs. "No, Matt."

"At least let me—"

"I need to speak first." Near's eyes are on the matchbox. He picks it up and turns it over, letting the contents clatter to the floor. "We both know that Mello is likely behind the kidnapping. He has the intellect, the drive, the training…" Near picks up a match and sets it in front of him, then lays another on top of it at a right angle. "However, you are in a position of superior knowledge of his activities. All I know is that he is involved with the mafia, but Kira has made our criminals skittish. Gathering intelligence is more difficult than it once was."

Matt doesn't respond. Near continues to lay matches at right angles, forming a square and then building over the base until a tower begins to emerge. "Matt, you  _do_ know who he has allied himself with, don't you?"

"I'm not choosing sides," Matt says.

"Not choosing is a choice."

Matt leans back in his chair and watches the other boy's construction project as it grows. "I'm not hiding anything," he says at last. "I don't know for sure if Mello is behind this, but kidnapping, it…it's something he would do. He does what he has to do. Always. And if he's found out about the Note, then he would try to get his hands on it. To spite you, to spite me, to get to Kira—I don't know. He envies you, though. He'll stop you, if he can. It's not just about Kira; he wants to beat you, too."

"But you don't know anything specific."

"No."

The matches build and build. The tower almost reaches Near's face, but he's slouching on the ground, so that's not a huge feat. Matt knows how this will work. The towers will multiply, grow, spread, until this mystery is solved.

 _If_  it's solved. But if it  _is_  Mello, he'll be sure to let Near know…

"If he gets the Note," Near says softly, "he will use it."

Matt shrugs.

"On my men. That will be his signal."

So this is why Near wanted Rester out of the room. "I don't know." Matt hesitates. "He threatened to kill me once, you know."

Near looks up from his matches, and for once Matt sees surprise outlining the wide black eyes. "Define threatened," he says in a half-whisper.

Matt shifts in his chair, but the words come easily enough. "A gun to my head. He clicked the safety off. He meant it." He meant it then, anyway; Matt doesn't know what the blonde means now. His cell phone continues to ring like clockwork, every week, but he refuses to answer.

They're strangers, as they've always been. It's better this way. No illusions.

Near's mind is visibly racing; he has stopped playing with his matches. "When you left—"

"Yeah. That was why."

Near reaches up to twirl his hair with one hand and goes back to his matches with the other. "I did not know," he murmurs urgently, more to the tiled floor than to Matt. "I did not even guess…I assumed you had a falling out, of course, but…"

"Mello does what he has to do," Matt interrupted.

"Of course. And he has to defeat me. Us. Kira and I."

Matt shrugs. "I know that's not a lot of information, but that's what I have."

Near looks up at him again. "No, Matt," he says, "it's enough." His eyes travel to the door and soften, just a bit. "They will die, then."

"If you lose."

"If I lose this  _battle_. I will win the war regardless, but we have a mole here, as I'm sure you've realized."

They lapse into silence again, and Matt watches as the tower builds up, up, up. Soon it grows almost too tall, and Near starts on another match-tower even though they both know that there more important things to do, that the matches will have to be swept away. But that is tonight, or tomorrow; for now, they are each living inside their own minds.

"I'm going to my room," Matt announces.

Near bobs his head but remains silent, and the hacker shrugs and lights a cigarette as he walks out. It seemed almost disrespectful to use his lighter in such proximity to the match-towers.

Rester is standing in the hallway, head bowed, hands shoved into his dress slacks. He looks up as Matt approaches, and the redhead cocks an eyebrow and waits.

"So it's true," the man says in a hoarse whisper.

Matt shrugs. "Don't ask me," he says. "I'm just code-monkey Matt."

He turns to look back into the conference room, following Rester's gaze. Near is still sitting there, eyes narrowed, apparently oblivious to all but his matchstick creations. It's amazing, really, how much he manages to keep locked behind those blank little eyes. Rester's mouth quivers.

* * *

The second L has the  _gall_  to call the SPK and ask for their assistance. Matt never got the chance to deal with L in person, but he can't imagine that he would have been so disgustingly pathetic.

Near perks up when he hears the man's request. "Phone," he demands, seizing it before Rester can protest. "L the second!" he drawls into the receiver. "Pleased to meet'cha."

Matt bites back a laugh as the voice splutters. The other members don't hear it, of course. It's clear that whoever this phony replacement is, he's a genius, albeit one unused to equal company; Matt and Near both can hear the weakness beneath his honey-smooth words.

He feels an irrational wave of anger at the unknown man, at the distorted voice that is and is not L's. It's not his fault, after all, that L's death made such a twisted mess of their lives.

Near talks on, the laughter a silent undercurrent flowing through his words, and Matt watches history unfold.

* * *

They do what they can. They have the police and FBI squads on alert in Los Angeles; they have bugs in the airport and have extensive background checks done on all the pilots. But the SPK is not involved in this, not directly, and that makes it difficult to track the hostage exchange.

A life for the Death Note. A life for a shinigami's powers.

Matt finds himself staring at Sayu Yagami's face when he should be doing research. She has fine, delicate features and a soft smile. He's never seen anyone so gently happy.

And then Yagami is intercepted by the kidnappers' agent at the airport. Rester swears, and the rest of them lean forward in their chairs and watch. Matt has installed cameras on the plane, but they've left the legwork to the NPA. The SPK can't interfere. Even if they shot down the plane carrying Yagami, they'd be stuck with a shadowy enemy and the possibility of the notebook somehow surviving, not to mention the false L's fury.

All they can do is wait and hope that the NPA won't botch things too badly.

The plane veers from its course and heads toward the desert. Yagami is led off the plane, and then underground. Long, long minutes pass; now they must rely on the Japanese team's information, not their own. The trade goes through, and Near's fingers clench in his hair. The helicopter with the kidnapper's man inside takes flight, presumably with the notebook— _wait_. Matt freezes for a split second before searching frantically for his satellite feeds.

"We'll do our best," Near murmurs into the transmitter, promising to track the helicopter. Matt whirls in his chair and grabs Near's sleeve. The albino frowns and leans over to look at Matt's monitor. "Nope," Near says, still talking to L, "it's over. Looks like you're beaten, L."

The faceless voice on the other end is stunned. "What's happened?"

Matt leans back in his chair, admiring the sheer brilliance of the kidnappers while Near uses his data to mock "L the second." A  _missile_. A missile. Of all the ways to get the notebook out—but, no, it makes perfect sense, because it's such an elegant solution.

"That's it, then," Ellickson says once Near hangs up the line. "They have the notebook."

"Whoever  _they_  are," Gevanni says softly.

Matt isn't listening. Instead, he's looking at Near, at Rester, at Hal. All of them are eerily similar in their responses: they've gone stone-silent, thoughts turning inward. _Yes_ , Matt thinks. They're the smartest of the bunch, after all. It makes sense.

Steve Mason takes out a rosary, and Matt shivers.

* * *

Near crouches in his chair, building his city of dice on the conference table. The other members hover in the room, pretending to look busy, but they aren't even fooling themselves. They were chosen for their intelligence, which makes denial a difficult task.

Matt leans back at his workstation, feet crossed, hands behind his head. The movement of Near's meticulous fingers is entrancing. Tower after tower after tower…the miniature city is almost beautiful, but it speaks of the albino's cunning, not his love of symmetry.

"He should be getting his hands on the notebook any minute now," Near murmurs to himself. "And when he does, I have a good idea of what he'll do next." He places the faintest of stresses on the word  _idea_. Nobody comments, but the stale smell of sweat floods Matt's nostrils.

The fingers move again, to place another die at the top of the tower, but this time they stutter. Near's barely-trembling fingers nudge the tower, and a smile creeps across Matt's face.

The first scream comes just as the dice begin to tumble onto the floor. They clatter, spin, roll, but they don't drown out the sound.

And then another shriek of pain, and then another, and then Ill Ratt is pressing a gun to his head and the others are all convulsing and writhing on the floor as their hearts struggle in their chests. Matt is frozen in his chair, the same as Near.

The dice continue to tumble to the floor, tower after tower, as the SPK members die and die and die. Die. Dice. Matt tries not to laugh, but hysteria chokes in his throat. Steve Mason. John McEnroe. Ellickson Gardner. Their faces stiffen in contorted grimaces of death, so very unlike themselves.

Halle and Commander Rester are on their feet, shaking. Matt closes his eyes.

There is barely a moment of silence before Near's hand snakes to his phone. A terse voice on the other end answers almost immediately: "Yes?"

"He got us," Near says. His voice is cool and collected. The ruins of his dice-city spread to touch his chair, and he draws his feet away. Matt stares at the blood running sluggishly from Ratt's head.

"Got you?" the fake L repeats incredulously.

"Yes," Near says, and this time there's the faintest hiss of anger. "The majority of the SPK's members have just been killed by the notebook."

Halle is sitting again, eyes half-lidded. Commander Rester stares at the ground, and Matt—well, he listens as Near rebukes this so-called L for his  _helplessness_  in the face of the kidnappers' threats. Even when confronted with death, Near excels at mockery. Subtle venom underscores every cool, polite word he speaks to the hidden voice all those miles away.

"I suspect that the person who arranged the kidnapping and the trade is someone who goes by the name…Mello."

Matt lurches uneasily from his chair and goes back to his room. He can feel Halle's trembling eyes on his back.

* * *

He rips his phone from its charging cord and goes into his history. The number is there, waiting, mocking him. He clicks TALK.

It rings, and Matt licks his lips.  _Pick up, damn you_ , he thinks.

Finally, the ringing stops. "So," Mello says without preamble, "you finally decided to speak to me." His voice is confident, self-assured without being mocking. This is the Mello who Matt remembers: unapologetic and matter-of-fact.

"You did it," Matt says. There's no question anymore; the instant the SPK members collapsed, he knew. He knows that his breathing is uneven, that Mello will instantly discern the panic beneath his voice, but that matters less than getting answers.

"And you didn't stop me," Mello says. "Or, rather, Near chose not to. I find that interesting—he could have blown the plane up, passengers and all. But I guess our games are more important than the lives of the SPK."

Matt sinks onto his bed and rests his head on his knees. Mello keeps talking. "It's been a long time, Matt. The new L is worthless, but  _we_  aren't. I'm leading this branch of the mafia now."

"Glad to hear it," he whispers hoarsely. Mello laughs, and there's a snapping sound in the background that Matt recognizes: chocolate.

"This is the home stretch, you know," Mello says softly. "Kira or the NPA or the SPK—one or two or three of them are going to come crashing down on us, and soon."

We. Us. "Why are you telling me this?"

Mello takes another audible bite of his chocolate bar. "How's Near?" he asks.

"Fine. Himself. Brilliant as ever," which is meant to piss Mello off, but the blonde doesn't take the bait.

"Interesting. Anything else?"

"I'm no spy. Not like Ratt."

"Ah," Mello says. "So you knew."

"Of course I knew he was the mole," Matt snaps. "You doubted that for a minute?"

"Near didn't figure it out," Mello points out, and Matt groans.

"Near doesn't worry about things like that. I knew."

"Then why not tell Near? You let them die, then." Mello laughs at Matt's silence. "Yes, Matt. I knew you knew. I figured you wouldn't say anything, so I let it be."

"I'm that predictable, am I?"

"It's called a calculated risk. The blackjack extraordinaire should know as much."

Matt's fingers dig into his kneecap. "Mello, why didn't you kill me wit the others?"

There's a pause, a beat of hesitation. "Matt," Mello says quietly, "using you—much less  _killing_  you—was never part of my plan. You were supposed to stay at the orphanage."

"Oh, fuck that," Matt seethes. "You're the one who got me wrapped up in all of this; of  _course_  you planned to use me. You wouldn't be worthy of Wammy if you hadn't, so don't go telling me lies. You  _knew_  I'd play by your rules."

"All right," Mello retorts, still quiet. "Fine. I'll tell the truth. Get your ass back to Vegas, Mail Jeevas, or I'm writing your name in the Note."

Matt's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth; he has no answer for that, no witty comeback or angry declaration. "Think about it," Mello says lightly, and the line goes dead.

1010101010101010101

At three in the morning, he's sitting in the SPK kitchen, making instant ramen. While he stares at the microwave, Halle walks in. Her lipstick is smeared on one side, and she's done a bad job of removing her eyeshadow.

"Hey," she says softly.

Matt leans against the counter, enjoying the grind of stone against his spine. "Hey," he says. His voice is smoke-choked and hoarse; he's had seven cigarettes in the last hour or so. Chain smoking isn't always his thing, but sometimes he needs it. Now's a good time.

Halle just looks at him, quiet and a little lost. Matt ignores her and goes back to watching the microwave's clock count down. She's the intruder here; the task of conversation-making falls to her. After a few moments, she moves past him and opens the pantry door. "I guess we're lucky to be alive," she says. Matt tries not to stare as she leans down to explore the lower shelves. Even now, with the Death Note threatening them from afar, his hormones are still raging.

"I guess so," he says.

The microwave beeps, loud and insistent in the dim kitchen. Matt takes out his ramen and sets the bowl on the island. It's soft and hot, albeit completely bland. Poor-college-kid style, he supposes—but college is a luxury he's never been able to afford. Not that it would've taught him much, anyway.

Halle emerges from the pantry with a box of Cheerios. She pours herself a bowl and joins him at the island. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.

"Not really, no."

Halle picks up a dry Cheerio and pops it into her mouth. Matt looks up, startled; the action is too unguarded, too graceless for what he's seen of her. "Near shared some information with me," she muses, ignoring his answer. "Mello. I wish I could meet him, though he seems to have a strange set of priorities. Settling schoolboy squabbles with the Note instead of tracking down Kira doesn't make much sense."

"Mm." Matt goes back to his ramen and downs another spoonful.

"Have you talked to him?" she asks.

He lets his spoon clatter against the bowl. "Damn it, Halle," he says, "if Near wants answers, he needs to ask me himself. Sending you is just stupid." Matt jumps down from the barstool and picks up his bowl. "Good  _night_ ," he growls.

Halle eats another dry Cheerio. "Good night, Matt," she murmurs.

He takes the ramen back to his room and sets it on his bed, ignoring the bit of broth that sloshes onto his blankets.

Yes. He definitely needs another cigarette.

1010101010101010101

He dreams that he's back at Wammy, and Mello is sitting on his chest, laughing. "Come on," the blonde taunts, "this can't hurt."

_Mel..lo…_

Except he can't protest, because for some reason Mello is too heavy and he's crushing Matt's chest, slowly but surely. Matt can feel his ribs creaking. And beneath them, his heart is shuddering and jerking and twisting, and it  _hurts_ , and Mello laughs and laughs and—

And Matt wakes up, sweat running down his neck and instant-noodle broth soaking his right foot. "Damn it," he croaks, but there's no one to hear.

* * *

The panic never comes, unless you count the cold chill of certainty deep in his bones. Mello's going to kill him, one way or the other; by his own hand or by someone else's. There's no escaping it. So how long does he have until the blonde terror decides that, no, Matt isn't going to come? How long until Mello carries out his threat?

How long will it take to track the mafia's hideout down?

Not long, Matt finds out. Yes. There. If he wasn't an atheist he would thank God for his work in Vegas—the legacy from those jobs is a hundred million backdoors, exactly where he needs them. Are there so few hackers in the States? Did his clients really trust him to  _not_  leave tendrils in trailing through his work?

He swallows the questions like he swallows his cigarette smoke. It's time to act.

"Matt," Near greets him. Matt nods stiffly in return, though it's a wasted gesture: the albino detective is spread out on the floor, constructing a block city to replace the ones he's destroyed. "I think I know what you're here for."

"I guess so."

They're not alone in the room, of course; while Halle is out, Rester leans against the wall, watching Near but remaining silent. "I'm sorry," Matt says. Even to his ears, the words sound hollow.

"Why are you leaving?"

"I think you know." Matt stares at the back of Near's head, at the matted white curls that hide the genius mind within. "Same reason I came, I guess."

"Very well." Near turns around now, and meets his gaze. Matt starts; there is pity in his eyes. "It was good to have you with us, Matt. However briefly."

Matt nods again. "Thank you, Near."

"Goodbye, Matt," Commander Rester says. His voice is rough.

"Bye."

The duffel is already slung over his shoulder, so he walks out and up the stairs into the fake lobby. Outside, he lifts his hand, and in a few minutes a yellow taxicab grinds to a halt by the sidewalk.

"The airport," he says. The driver nods, and Matt takes out his phone.

"Matt?"

"I'm coming."

He closes the phone before Mello can reply and stuffs it back into his pocket. He leans his head against the window, and watches the city roar by. It hasn't been so long, really.

His veins are burning with fear-birthed adrenaline, but he should know better. If only he could rebuke his body. There's nothing so surprising about this situation.

After all, Mello has always ruled his life.


	12. Chapter 12

  
He doesn't know what to do at the airport, so he paces. There's too much energy coiled in his bones. Every time someone jostles past him he flinches and whirls, about to shout, only to realize that it was just a mistake. Just a mistake. He's another anonymous person, here in the crowd. Same as before.

Even having made his decision, he can't help but feel its pressure.

The TVs are alive with the news of Kira. The anchors don't bother to hide their sweat, and their tense smiles look painful. Matt shudders and tries to tune it out, but it's impossible to ignore the litany of deaths. A homeless guy camped out in gate G12 is singing the dead of the day, mumbling his chant through broken teeth. A paean to the lord of death.

"Catherine Mott, Frank Lansky, Totto Brusca, Lottie Aurer," he hisses as Matt approaches. "Dead, dead, dead; Kira's triumph cleanses us. Celebrate! Maxwell Hine, Kevin Blumberg-dead, dead-"

"Shut up," Matt says, pulling to a stop in front of him.

He can feel the eyes of other travelers suddenly focusing on him. The tension is immediately palpable; he's done the unthinkable. Questioning Kira...

Even as he thinks it, he knows that his face—though not his name—will appear on the nets in a few minutes, on one of the many digital shrines built by Kira's worshippers. As though it matters, when Kira's mystical power is nothing more than a borrowed notebook and an everyday pen.

Matt finally thinks he understands Kira. Not the actual person, the human who eludes them, but the specter that these people worship. Having seen the Death Note through a computer screen, having watched it kill the SPK before his eyes—for no reason, no motive or logic of its own—he finally understands. Kira is nothing, compared to the humans who write in the Note. To give Kira credit is like giving credit to chaos, or God, or any of the invisible forces that might as well be human inventions.

These people's idea of Kira is nothing— _nothing_ —compared to the real people who posses the Note. Their mysterious quarry, the original killer. Higuchi.

Mello.

Matt smiles at the bum.

The homeless man sneers back at him. "What's that you said, sonny boy?"

"Shut up," Matt repeats, matter-of-fact. "You heard me, too. Celebrating his kills. You're pathetic."

The man shakes a finger at him. "You'll see," he wheezes. "Heresy. It will be punished, in due course...Kira's wrath will come, and then  _we_  will laugh. You'll see. Kira will have his way."

It's hard to look at the man and  _see_  him; Matt's attention keeps sliding from the present. Unseen, hidden beneath his mop of greasy smoke-scented hair, his mind roars as it connects the dots. _Kira. Kira_.

"Yeah," Matt says. He laughs. "I'm sure."

He turns and walks away, before he says anything else. The other travelers shy away from him, like he's carrying influenza. Cold shoulders, refusals to meet his eyes. They practically clear his path. Matt takes what he's given and strides through the knots of hushed people, avoiding their gazes even as they do the same for him.

He can't work up the energy to keep hold of his anger, so he lets it go. Ignoring the quietly scandalized looks of those around him, Matt walks into the nearest restroom, locks himself inside a stall, and sinks to the ground.

Matt tips his head back and closes his eyes. Maybe he'll be of significant use to Mello after all.

10101010101010101010101

His phone rings a few minutes after he steps off the plane, and Matt smiles mirthlessly. Someone's keeping close tabs. "Matt here," he says.

"I wasn't expecting anyone else," the familiar, snide voice says. "Did you get my memo about headquarters?"

"Yep."

"Good." Mello sounds smug. "Things are getting interesting here, and I want to have everything settled before filling you in-can you swing by tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" Matt frowns. "Mel, what do you mean by interesting?"

"Just that. Important. Looking into the Note, what it can do."

Matt knows full well what the Note can do. "Look—"

"Matt, I know I dragged you out here," Mello interrupts. "I'd say that I'm sorry I'm busy, but I'm not. Tough luck; I don't have time to show you around right now. Don't tell me you can't take care of yourself for a damn day."

"What's so important that you can't tell me?"

Mello laughs on the other end. "If you're going to come back under my command," he says, "you better get used to orders. Tomorrow, Matt."

The line goes dead. Matt swears and rams it back into his pocket. Sometimes he wonders who he'd be if it hadn't been for Whammy, or if he'd just had the smarts to hold himself back during testing, to avoid his connection with Mello…

Which brings him back to the blonde's cryptic statements. What  _can_  the Note do? He knows the basic rules, about needing a name and a face; he knows about Kira's ability to manipulate his victims prior to death. And then there are the assorted other rules—like the thirteen-day rule, the rule that exonerated Light Yagami. He can't think of any in particular that require  _research_.

More than that, though, he wonders why Mello bothered to recall him to Vegas in the first place.

But then, Mello has always been too erratic to be predicted. Shrugging mentally, Matt goes to book a room for the night; preferably in a casino. Somehow he thinks that he's going to need the stress relief.

1010101010101010101010101

In the morning he rolls out of bed, groggy and dry-mouthed from a night spent at the blackjack tables. Distantly, Matt knows that he probably overdid it on the alcohol; between that and his nerves, he didn't make as much at blackjack as he would've liked. He stumbles into the bathroom and sticks his head under the sink, slurping from the tap. It feels cool—cool and clean.

Two hours later he's on the road with a full stomach and a clearer head. He maps out the route as he heads into Vegas' less-traveled roads, roads long familiar to him. Mello's current headquarters belong to Rod, if he's not mistaken. Matt hasn't been, but he keeps himself current. Rod's branch is one of the only ones to survive Kira's keen eyes. Whether that's by luck or skill—

He crests the top of a hill, and any musings about Rod's mafia politics vanish like dust on the wind.

Matt slams on the breaks and stares. Mentally, he double-checks and triple-checks the address Mello gave him. It matches.

Suddenly his throat is dry again, only this has nothing to do with alcohol. Matt shoves the car into park and stumbles outside. He's in an industrial park: a perfectly ordinary, nondescript industrial park, except for the fact that one of the largest buildings has been transformed into a pile of smoking, smoldering rubble.

It reeks: of burnt chemicals, yes, but of burnt  _meat_  too. Matt's stomach twists.

Some research you were doing last night, huh?

The sardonic thought flashes through his mind—a reflex—before blinking out of existence. Matt grabs his cell and punches in Mello's encrypted number. It rings, and rings, and rings…and then he hears it, an answering echo, as faint as a butterfly's wingbeat. But it's there.

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ," Matt whispers. He stumbles forward and scrambles into the rubble. Blocks of concrete shift under his sneakers. His cell cuts to voicemail. Matt dials it again and waits, listening for the ringtone. Plain and nondescript, but definitely coming from beneath the wreckage. He follows it until it's coming from underneath his feet.

For a moment he teeters, thinking. Mello's phone is under here. Mello probably is, too. Mello, who Matt followed into America on a child's lark, only to realize (or maybe remember) that Matt's position as sidekick has always been tenuous at best, that the only thing he can hope to be here is a tool.

_O brave new world, that has such people in it._

Killers, thugs, detectives, policemen; reluctant brothers in their quest to kill a newly minted god.

Matt takes a deep breath, tries not to choke on the fire's pungent odor, and dives in.

It's long going. He doesn't have any proper equipment, not even a shovel in the trunk of his rented car, so he has to use his hands. Glass is mixed in with the concrete and the metal. Soon his hands are bleeding; Matt grimly pulls his shirt off, tears it, and wraps the fabric around his hands before continuing.

Finally the ringtone grows louder, and then he sees a shock of blonde hair underneath the wreckage. Matt shoves the last few blocks aside. Fuck it, but the bastard is  _here._  He's found him.

When he pushes away the next chunk of concrete, the smell hits him a pistol in his gut; Matt rocks back on his heels, gagging. He recognizes that smell.  _Burnt skin._  He looks down. Beneath him, Mello lies half-covered in dust and debris, but still very much alive.

The skin of Mello's cheek has been stripped away. It's shiny, and a nauseating red-yellow-green color that reminds Matt of vomit. It isn't even smooth anymore; the heat has warped it into looking like boiling water frozen in time. The only parts that are safe are where a half-melted gas mask is glued to his skin, keeping at least part of his face recognizable.

There are similar burn marks across the blonde's body, Matt sees, horrid, terrible swathes of melted skin. He doesn't need his Whammy medical training to recognize life-threatening burns when he sees them. And his leather—fuck Mello's leather, Mat thinks, looking down at him. A stupid idea if there ever was one. It's fused to his skin, too. And then there are bruises and scrapes, maybe broken bones, though in this position…

"Mel," he says aloud.

Those familiar blue eyes flutter open. At first they're glazed with pain, but then their gaze sharpens, and they focus on Matt's face. "Matt," Mello manages. The voice that emerges is choked and hoarse, but it's still the same. Still familiar.

The eyes close again, though Matt can't be sure if Mello is conscious or not. His brow is drawn tight with pain, and his fingers clench into fists.

Matt drops from his crouch and lets himself thud against the broken ground. How ironic. Twice Mello has threatened Matt's life, and yet now Matt's the one alive, whole, healthy, with the future of Mello's life in his hands. "I could kill you now," he whispers. "I could."

And if he only cared about covering his own ass, he  _ought_  to kill Mello. Mello knows your name, Matt reminds himself. Mello wouldn't think twice about offing you, and you know it.

But that doesn't quite work either, and it sure as hell isn't an excuse. No matter what Mello would do, Matt isn't Mello. Not ever, or maybe just not yet, because Matt knows that he's probably going to regret this.

"I could kill you," he tells Mello's body again. "I wouldn't even have to do anything. I could just…walk away." He stands, staring down at the prone blonde, this once-proud manipulator of America's criminal underground. "Except I can't do that, not yet."

Matt bends down and eases Mello's head upright. The blonde whimpers, and Matt knows that moving him is going to be both dangerous and slow.

He can't leave him, though, not yet, no matter how much bad blood has been sown between them. They have a god to destroy.


	13. Chapter 13

Saving Mello is easier said than done. First he has to extract Mello and lift him into his rented car. Once Matt has to lurch to the side and vomit, the sickening smell of seared flesh hot in his nostrils. Every time he shifts Mello's body he imagines that more skin is being peeled away, more damage being done.

His mind is still stuck in molasses, caught between the urge to see Mello suffer and the need to see Mello live.

Finally he shifts him into the car, and the long, careful drive begins. But he can't bring a dying teen into any respectable hotel, Vegas or not, so Matt chews his lip and heads to Mello's own apartment.

Seeing the familiar building makes him shudder; the last time he was here, his life was teetering precariously in Mello's hands. Matt leaves Mello unconscious in the car and lets himself in with his old key and old passcode. More proof of Mello's arrogance, or did he just not care that Matt still had access to his space?

Matt boots up one of Mello's computers, heads to Google, and brings up burn care information before moving to search out some old sheets. Getting him upstairs and into the apartment is going to be a painful and probably ill-advised task, but it's not like he has any alternative.

101010101010101010101010101010101

Mello never does anything halfway. Waking up falls under that category, too. Precisely five hours after Matt stops dosing him with sedatives, Mello starts screaming. Matt walks into the bedroom and pulls up a chair. The screaming stops.

They look at each other. It still takes all of Matt's willpower not to flinch at the ugly, ruined mess that is Mello's new face. Mello is strapped to his bed with restraints that Matt found in the closet; he knows the restraints probably used to serve  _other_  purposes, but he needed something to keep the blonde boy from hurting himself. He'd stripped Mello bare of most of his clothes, cleaned his skin, bandaged him and applied ointments and salves as best as he could. Pumped him full of antibiotics like a factory-raised chicken. The end result is this: Mello is alive, barely, even if the smell emanating from his skin tells a different story.

"Matt," he croaks at last. His voice is rough. Mello flexes his hands, which are still tied to cuffs at the edge of the bed.

"Yeah." Matt gets up, pours a glass of water from the pitcher by the bed, and holds it to Mello's lips. The boy gasps and drinks it greedily, staring at Matt the entire time. When he finishes, he tries to speak again. "You're still here."

"Don't ask me why," Matt warns. But he knows why. It's there, the panic in his gut, the queasy relief at hearing his longtime companion finally,  _finally_  return to the land of the living. Instead, though, he says: "Tell me."

Mello tells him.

101010101010101010101010101010101

At the end of it, Matt releases the cuffs on Mello's wrists and ankles. He leaves the room and shuts himself inside of the computer closet. It's still here, still intact. The machines boot up with a quiet hum, and he runs his fingers reverently over the metal cases. It's as though he never left.

Instead of digging in and checking on his networks, though, he switches on a radio news feed, leans against the wall and closes his eyes. The buzz of panicking news anchors provides a nice white-noise background to his thoughts.

Death Notes, death  _gods_ , crazy dangerous shit on a level he'd never even imagined. This is like ending up in some crap fantasy novel. The President is dead, the SPK members are dead, so so many of Mello's pawns in the Mafia are dead. The ability to kill from a face alone. Shit. And Mello had come so close.

He doesn't know whether or not he should be relieved that it was Mello who blew up the headquarters. Something about arson sends Matt's skin crawling. But in many ways it doesn't matter, because Kira and the Japanese NPA both want Mello dead, and the American government has given up. Matt replays everything that Mello told him in his mind, unraveling the story and sifting his fingers through the threads. It's all so very, very strange.

His phone buzzes. Matt clicks open the text message instinctively; it's from Halle.  _I heard the news,_  it reads.  _We'll take you you both if you need cover._

He doesn't reply.

Instead Matt leans back and lets his head  _thunk_  against the wall. His mind is buzzing, coiling with angry energy and restless nerves. He thinks about the wounded boy in the room next door, about his fire and rage and helplessness, about washing burn wounds with careful panic for hours and hours.

Before he can change his mind, Matt lurches to his feet and strides into the next room. Mello looks up as he enters, brows arched questioningly. "I have some rules," Matt announces. "We share information—all of it. No more threats. And you can't try to kill Near, directly or indirectly."

Mello's brows arch further upwards. "Feeling fond of him?"

Matt snorts. "I'm offended by Kira," he tells Mello. "Your priority is to win; mine is to make Kira lose."

Mello shifts in his bed. Matt tries not to look at him, or the burns. "What if I don't agree?"

That jerks Matt's head up. "Do you know how badly you were, when I found you?" he asks. "You were buried under that rubble. Nobody had bothered to look for you." He holds up his hands. They're still wrapped in gauze and ointment. His fingers are bruised and his nails broken from digging through concrete and glass. "I could have left you."

"I still don't get why you didn't."

Matt steps forward until he's leaning over the bed. Mello stares back at him, affecting a lazy, defiant look even now. Except, Matt knows it's all a façade. He can see the slight quiver in the blue eyes, hear the nervous, pained inhale and exhale of Mello's breath. "I thought you were dead," Matt says. When his voice catches in his throat, shame surges in his stomach, but he forces himself to keep talking. "I found out then that I'm a  _fool_. I'm willing to accept that." He smiles crookedly. "I'm used to you making a fool of me."

"Matt," Mello breathes. He reaches out with his hand, and Matt clasps it loosely. Mello squeezes, hard, even though his entire body must be on fire right now. "I am  _sorry_."

"We're all kinds of fucked up, you know," Matt says.

Mello chuckles. "If you just noticed that, you haven't been paying attention." He leans back and narrows his eyes, frowning. "I tried," he says. "I gambled. Seems like I lost. I was so close, Matt. I had a Note."

"Lost," Matt repeats. "You make it sound like it's over."

The way Mello stares at him makes him feel mighty uncomfortable. Mello's eyes are narrowed, thinly focused laser beams scouring Matt's face with the intensity of a solar flare. "You're serious," Mello says.

Matt swallows, hard. "I think I am," he says.

"You can't flake again," Mello says. "I'm not talking about me this time, I'm talking about Kira. This is for keeps."

"I know."

"Jesus, Matt." Mello closes his eyes and leans back against the pillow. "You would've saved us both a lot of trouble if you'd decided this a while ago."

Matt considers that. Maybe Mello's touched on a grain of truth, maybe he hasn't, but all the same the thought of it burns. He gazes at Mello, at the boy's scarred face and his too-pale skin. "We'd both be dead, if I had."

"Maybe."

It makes him a terrible person, it really does. But Matt thinks—even if he'd stayed on with Mello, from the beginning, it wouldn't be the same. He wouldn't know what a fool he is, for this ridiculous star-bright, manic boy. Knowing he's a fool gives him an inner sense of clarity, a ringing certainty in his own motivations.

"We'll catch him," Matt tells Mello, and Mello bares his teeth in that feral snarl that Matt loves so much.

"Yes," the blonde hisses, and when he squeezes Matt's hand, Matt feels better than he can remember feeling in years.

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That's all it takes.

On the plane ride back to New York, Matt stares out the window at the clear sky. He hates flying. Next to him, Mello dozes, knocked out by a cocktail of painkillers and sedatives. Matt is still surprised that the blonde is able to walk, but that's Mello for you. Indomitable.

Matt's chest feels painfully tight, as it has since he first rediscovered Mello. He can't shake the feeling that he's signed a contract to bring about his own doom. At the same time, maybe his stomach is churning from excitement, too. It's been  _years_  since he let himself sink his teeth into a problem like this. Back at the flat, as Mello laid out his plan, his theories, his suspicions, Matt felt his blood soar. He's like a recovered junkie, shooting up again for the first time in years; the taste is sweet, so sweet, and he can't help the craving that sings in his veins.

It's like his brain remembers what it was to be  _M_ , the impressive one, the class star. Matt doesn't miss being best; his ego has long since healed, and he thinks for the better. But his brain remembers the feeling of striving, trying to please a distant god, a terrible and awesome mentor. That feeling electrifies him again as he hashes out the plans with Mello. Except Mello is no computer-synthesized projection. He's real, flesh and blood and pain and fire. Mello's regard for him lights a warmth in his stomach that justifies this, over and over again. Oh, he's still rude, still curt and vulgar and volatile. But the real venom is gone, and in its place is some strange blend of wonder and respect.

Matt thinks he likes it.

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He's only a little exasperated when Mello holds Halle hostage at gunpoint. "Normal people can just  _ask_  for things, you know," he tells him. "That was unnecessary. I already told you where headquarters was."

"They might have moved. The NPA could have been watching. All sorts of things." Mello has his boots kicked over the edge of the couch. He's got the old picture of him in his fingers, toying with it. His brow is furrowed. At this point, he's mostly healed, but the scar is there to stay. It exaggerates the blonde's look of frustration. "I didn't expect Near to cooperate."

"You underestimate him."

"Like  _hell_  I do." Mello spits the words. "I've heard enough about little boy genius, thank you very much—"

"I meant emotionally," Matt says. He keeps puffing on his cigarette, keeps his fingers busy with his DS. It really isn't good to pay attention to Mello when he's angry; the boy feeds off attention for his tantrums. "He doesn't hate  _you_."

Mello ignores this. "The game is on," he says. "For real, now. We know so much more. Tomorrow. We start surveillance tomorrow."

Matt hums in agreement and finishes another level in his game.

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When he hears Mello's final plan, Matt nods, slowly. "All right," he says. Then he goes outside to have a smoke.

It's harder to indulge his habit here, in modern-day health-conscious New York, than in Vegas. Matt leans over the railing of the fire escape and lights up, looking down at the crowded streets below their midtown hotel room. It's a hazy afternoon, the heat simmering on the sidewalks, New Yorkers moving quickly below like jerky automatons.

Mello joins him at the railing, gripping the iron tightly with gloved fingers. Even in the heat, Mello insists on covering himself in black leather. "Hey. You've been out here a while."

Matt doesn't reply to that. Finally, Mello sighs and speaks up again. "Matt, if you don't want to go along with this plan, you don't have to."

"About the last time," Matt says abruptly. He stares out at the Manhattan landscape, at the orange-tinted smog, glad once again that his goggles give him a sense of separation from his surroundings. "When you said you'd write my name in the Note. Did you mean it?"

Mello exhales slowly. Matt turns and lets himself look at Mello's face: the deep blue eyes, calm for the moment; the tense line of his mouth; the jagged scar; the defiant set of his chin.

"I'm sorry about that," Mello says at last. "I…gambled that you would consider the threat to be real. That you didn't have any faith in me. So I threatened you. Both times, that was my strategy."

"And if I'd called your bluff?"

Mello chews his lip. "I don't know," he says at last.

Matt believes him. It doesn't hurt, anymore, not compared with the actual acts themselves. In some ways, the answer doesn't matter. He's always known Mello as a violently destructive, unpredictable fireball of raw energy and rawer anger. Him and Mello both know that however Mello feels now doesn't necessarily correlate to what he might have done before.

Matt has yielded himself to the whims of a fickle beast, a mercurial demon. It's the answer he expected.  _You wouldn't believe him if he told you otherwise_ , he snaps to himself.

"I mean it, this time, though," Mello says quietly. "I could find someone else to do it."

That's a bluff, and Matt knows that plenty well. Mello's contacts are either dead, or have no reason to trust him. If the Family wasn't in tatters thanks to Kira, there would be a hit on his head.

Matt lights another cigarette and focuses on the feeling of the sun on his face, the smoke in his lungs. He thinks back to his life outside Wammy, before he'd stumbled across _Hannon_  while bug-sweeping for Travis. Days spent idling away his time at blackjack tables, half-heartedly taking the odd contracting job, spending nights alone in his flat with nothing but his machines and his games. These past few weeks have been different, electric; painful, yes, but so much more real.

For a moment he considers life after walking away. Watching the outcome of the battle on the TV, so many steps removed, guessing at whether or not Mello or Near or Kira are dead yet. Finding more contracts, setting up a new non-identity, playing video games alone in his room while his onetime classmates gamble with the god of death. There's something depressing about the idea.

"Remember?" he asks Mello, holding up his cigarette. "You used to be so concerned about these."

Mello swallows. "Yeah."

Matt knows he's being cruel. The blonde is still in shock, somewhat, that Matt bothered to save him after the fire. It's not nice to toy with him. "I'll do it," he says.

"I'll get you out," Mello tells him. "You'll be fine."

Matt forces a smile, knowing that Mello will see the plasticity of it but not being able to help himself. "Yeah."

He doesn't believe Mello, not for an instant, but the look of relief in the blonde's blue eyes is enough.

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When the cars circle him and the guns appear, Matt steps outside to meet them. Mello has escaped. That's what matters. That's what's always mattered.

With a cigarette and a smile on his lips, Matt meets his decision head-on.

**Author's Note:**

> I first started this fic back in 2008. Wow! It was originally (and still is) hosted at FF.net. I re-read it last night, in its incomplete state, and had to finish it. I'm not entirely happy with how it turned out, but it's done.
> 
> I want to get back into writing fanfic, so I'm posting it now on AO3 and hoping that it will be first fic I post here, not the last.


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